


the sun's blood on my hands (i'll tell the moon)

by kpop angst queen (highkeylukey)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Light Angst, M/M, Smut, draco is frustrated for uh...other reasons, harry doesn't understand why draco still hates him, he's frustrated, there's sex and fluff and angst because they can't figure their shit out, they're dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2018-12-25 21:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12044190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highkeylukey/pseuds/kpop%20angst%20queen
Summary: Lovers kiss each other’s skin softly. Lovers gently run their fingers down each other’s hair. Lovers exchange tender words, their lips catching on each other as drown in shared passion.Lovers don’t bite each other’s neck to blood. Lovers don’t scratch wounds down each other’s spines. Lovers don’t whisper cruel words in each other’s ears, sinking teeth into lips in a mess of pain and pleasure.Draco knows this. And yet it’s getting harder to remember why, because when Harry looks at him like this, the moonlight spilling over his face and lightening his eyes to a pale jade of desire, those three words have never seemed closer.





	1. problems

**Author's Note:**

> fic title from ode to sleep by twenty one pilots

**CHAPTER 1**  
_“I gotta give it to you, you give me problems.”_ – Kathleen, Catfish and the Bottlemen

 

“You named her _what_?”

Harry looks deeply into the red eyes of the skeletal animal, but it still doesn’t look like a vampire slayer to him.

“Buffy,” Luna repeats. “And this is Ross, Baudelaire, Piper, and Hannibal,” she says, pointing at the one Harry is standing next to.

There’s a terrible silence, finally broken by Hermione’s careful:

“Luna…I installed Netflix for you two days ago.”

Luna’s eyes are a limpid blue as she says:

“It turns out Netfleckers make one lose all sense of time. I sent a letter to Dad about it. He was very happy for the insight.”

Harry sees Hermione frown and open her mouth, and instantly tunes out the conversation, knowing from experience how long the two girls’ arguments can last. Instead he takes in the scenery of loud, excited students climbing onto the carriages, and with a sudden sting of bitterness, wonders how many of them still have the benefit of thinking there’s nothing pulling them.

He’s called back to reality by Luna’s reproachful words.

“Harry, why aren’t you petting Hannibal? They’re loyal creatures, you know, and he probably thinks of you as his master after flying you to the Ministry.”

Harry blinks. He’s pretty sure that thestral back in fifth year was female.

“Don’t you recognize him?”

Luna sounds genuinely offended on behalf of the animal, which keeps placidly munching on Harry’s sleeve. Well, at least that name Hannibal sort of makes sense. He gives it an awkward sort of pat before climbing inside the carriage, and thanking heavens that it isn’t already occupied by some adoring first year. With Hagrid gone to become caretaker of Beauxbâtons horses, they no longer get to the castle through a different entrance, and Harry isn’t all that enthusiastic about being in close quarters with any of them. Meeting some of them on the Hogwarts Express has been – sufficiently enlightening.

“Harry I can almost hear your thoughts and I’m not impressed,” Hermione quips up.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Harry mock-sighs. “You have no idea how dramatically inconvenient it is, being The Boy Who Lived Twice To Save The Wizarding World. Adoring crowds everywhere I go, sexual advances left and right, people offering me their first-borns… it’s very tiring.”

She slaps him on the head with the Daily Prophet, the front page of which shows his own face moodily scowling at the cameras (“The Saviour’s Smouldering Look Sets A New Trend”, which is still better than Witch Weekly’s “Exclusive: Harry Potter’s Scandalous Hogwarts Love Life” and Teen Witch’s “10 reasons we choose our Chosen Boy”).

“I’d be surprised if all the attention hasn’t already gotten to your head. Clearly you’re going mad.”

Harry shrugs, his lips curling into a smile.

“Nah. Haven’t you heard?” He juts his chin out to Luna, who has taken off one of her radish earrings and is nibbling at it. “I’m just as sane as she is.”

Eventually they fall silent as the carriage is about to turn into view of what Harry once considered his home. He doesn’t know what would be worse, a castle still half destroyed, reminders of the horrible war at every corner, or a new, shiny Hogwarts trying to pretend nothing happened at all.  
Finally, the castle comes into view, the familiar towers tearing up the night sky. The carriages come to a halt in front of the large entrance, and as soon as he steps out, Harry drinks in the renewed façade and giant oak door. Last time he saw it, it was in complete ruins.

“Harry, welcome back.”

He turns around to see Neville smiling assuredly at him, his confident attitude and broad shoulders miles away from the nervous boy he used to be. Both Ron and Neville went back in mid-July to help with the reconstructions. Ron said it felt like he somehow owed it to Fred, and Hermione and Harry knew better than to argue with that, but it was weeks before the idea of returning to Hogwarts for a retake of their final year made Harry feel anything but completely nauseated.

“Nev,” Harry greets, before letting his eyes roam the Entrance Hall, looking for–oh.

Ron has his tongue down Hermione’s throat, his arms holding her in a passionate embrace. Well, he guesses he can say hi a bit later.

“That’s the best way to attract Dappleblimps,” Luna remarks mildly. “You’d think winning a war would have made them more careful.”

“Ah, I’ve missed you,” Neville laughs.

While the two of them catch up with each other, Harry makes his way to his best friends, who have reluctantly let go of each other at Hermione’s sudden realization of how crowded the room is. Both are bright red, but Ron manages to overlook his embarrassment enough to pull Harry into a hug.

“It’s good to see you again,” he grins. “I hope Mum wasn’t too annoying because you didn’t stay at the Burrow.” He sends a fleeting glance around, and seems reassured that Hermione is out of ear’s reach. “By the way mate, I need to know. Did she receive any more letters from Krum?”

“What?”

“Come on, you know, Viktor Krum. He’s always sending Mione these long-ass letters, and the war certainly didn’t stop him.” He pauses a couple of seconds. “I hate that guy.”

“I…,” Harry shakes his head in bemusement. “I have no idea.”

“Ugh, what’s the point of getting free samples from George’s shops if you don’t even use them to spy on your best mate’s girlfriend?”

George recently released the projects he had been working on with Fred, calling the new line ‘Fred’s Fantastically Fabulous Final Fabrications’. It included Extendable Eyes, with which Harry guesses he could have checked Hermione’s mail, had he acquired an even bigger death wish than the one everyone kept talking to him about during the war.

“Ron, it’s Hermione. I don’t think Wizarding Wheezes could ever trick her.”

As expected, a dopey grin spreads on the redhead’s face, the one that literally spells out ‘my girlfriend is brilliant and I love her’.

“I guess you’re right. Let’s get some food then, there’s no jealousy a good old feast can’t fix.”

They follow the crowd into the Great Hall, and it’s somewhat of a shock to see it again so whole, the four long tables and the sky-reflecting ceiling and the professors’ tables where McGonagall sits and smiles at him – he drops his gaze, fists tight at his side.

It’s hard to breathe, suddenly. He can still see endless rows of beds with the people who died for him, the limp arms and red-tainted sheets. Some bodies so small it makes him want to retch. The mourning families surrounding them. In his dreams, they scream that it’s all his fault. There’s a pressure in his lungs and his throat feels tight, like he’s finally going to cry those months of unshed tears. It’s not just the deaths. Death is easy, he’s been there. But he can also still hear screams of pain.

A firm hand on his arm throws him out of his daze.

“There’s a brick for each of them,” Ron quietly says. “On the far end wall, they each have their name carved into a brick. To commemorate. We can go pay our respects later if you want.” He hesitates; adds. “There’s one for Cedric too.”

Harry takes a sharp breath, the oxygen almost hurting on the way down.

“Okay. Okay. That’s good.”

They find their way to the Gryffindor table and Harry is only slightly trembling by the time he sits down. The table is full of happy faces and loud voices, eager to get the feast started.

“Yes, yes, people cheated to change the location of the championship, but did someone create a fake trophy and plant it in another club’s practice room to create a scandal which caused their star player’s expulsion?” Seamus is rattling off to Dean.

“No, but that’s di–oh, hey guys.”

They both greet the new-comers quickly before going back to their argument about what sport is more corrupted, football or Quidditch. As Ron and Neville start listing other Quidditch scandals to a disgruntled Dean, Harry relaxes, sweet familiarity washing over him in between his old roommates and comrades during the war.

Letting his gaze sweep once again over the Hall, he finds himself taking stock of the students. Only the Gryffindor table seems to be as full as the previous years. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff still have a considerable number of students, but not everyone came back to retake their 7th year, and some were sent to different schools after Hogwarts was deemed unsafe. The Slytherin Table, in contrast, is half empty. Few came back, although he does recognize Bulstrode and Parkinson, who he is surprised to see had the guts to come back after what happened during the battle.

And of course, there’s Malfoy.

He’s sitting a bit off to the side, his white blond hair falling into his face as he stares down at the table. Somehow, he looks as defeated as he did at his trial.

It’s the only one Harry went to. Most of June is a blur to him, between the endless ceremonies and dreadful funerals, but the trial stands out to him. He remembers it as if it were yesterday, the stale air of the old room, the indignant and self-righteous faces of the Wizengamot – as if they had lifted a single fucking finger during the war–, the fear lining Narcissa Malfoy’s face and the emptiness in her husband’s eyes… The way the public was almost panting for the Malfoys’ blood. It was horrible. Harry stayed just enough time to testify for Narcissa and for Malfoy, and then left.

Now, Harry lets his eyes glide over him. He’s as pointy a git as ever, with his narrow shoulders, pointy chin and sharp cheekbones. He looks washed out; everything about him is impossibly pale, his skin and his hair and even his eyes…which are staring right back at him. Fuck.

Caught, Harry fights hard against an embarrassed blush. How could he have thought Malfoy looked defeated just a minute ago? The way the grey eyes are surveying him, all arrogance and disdain, that’s not defeat. That’s someone still aiming for victory.  
Malfoy arches an eyebrow, and Harry knows the polite thing would be to look away – after all, he’s the one who got caught looking – but he can’t back down. Yes, there may be a war and life debts between them, and he can’t honestly say he hates him anymore, but it’s still sodding Malfoy and he absolutely _refuses_ to lose to Malfoy.

Malfoy must have seen it on his face, because there’s a snarl forming at his lips, and his eyes darken. His entire being seems to scream ‘well go on, fight me’, his bitterness and resentment hitting Harry hard even from the other side of the room. And it’s not exactly what Harry would have expected, after saving the guy’s life twice and defending him at his trial. He can taste something sour in the back of his throat.

Then McGonagall stands up to announce the Sorting Ceremony, and Harry finally wrenches his eyes away.

 

* * *

 

“Will you stay still for two seconds,” Harry mutters, half exasperated, as he finishes unpacking. “Please?”

Sometimes he thinks getting a wizarding tattoo was his worst idea yet, as he hasn’t yet gotten used to the tickling sensation when it moves and it’s slowly driving him insane. But Dean was all too happy to draw him the phoenix spanning across his back once he mentioned his interest, and anything that made any of them happy this summer got itself a place of choice on Harry’s list of priorities. Still, it _tickles_.

“Talking to yourself again? I hear that’s the first sign of insanity,” comes Seamus voice from behind. “Next is having mood swings for no apparent reason, and inability to follow rules…oh shit.”

Harry chucks a pillow at him.

“See! Now the violence! Ah, and this year I won’t be able to rely on other Gryffindors to protect me from you,” Seamus fake-shudders.

“There’s always Dean just next door,” Harry points out.

“Oh yes. Dean, my dear friend. My saviour. My knight in shining armour.”

He launches himself onto a very surprised Dean, who promptly falls to the ground.

“Seamus what the hell?”

“Yeah no, he’s not saviour material. Oh, but what am I going to do?” Seamus laments somewhere in the background.

As McGonagall explained during the feast, the so-called 8th years are all sharing a common room and dormitories somewhere in the West Tower, regardless of House. Harry considers himself somewhat lucky, as he’s roomed with Seamus and Terry Boot, a bookish boy from Ravenclaw.

Despite being newly convinced that Slytherins are not all bad and that perpetuating the stereotype is only encouraging the exclusion of Slytherins and possible formation of future Dark Lords, only Nott and Malfoy came back to retake the year. He figures it’d be a bit awkward, sharing his bedroom with them when he’s played a huge part in the death of one’s father and the imprisonment of the other’s. Plus, they’re kind of assholes.

Still, it’s going to be strange not sharing bedrooms with Ron for the first time.

“We could get drunk,” Anthony Goldstein says, looking down at Seamus’ inert form on the ground.

“Um, isn’t tomorrow the first day of classes?” Terry points out.

“Ugh,” Seamus wrinkles his nose, “then we’re definitely getting drunk.”

Turns out Anthony brought some Fireball back from the summer, and within minutes, they have an actual plan. Seamus and Harry will both go to the dorm Ron, Ernie, Dean and Anthony are sharing, while Terry stays in to get a good night’s sleep. While Dean and Anthony are setting up the drinks in their room, Harry offers to go to the kitchens and get some food from the house elves. The rules are relaxed for the 8th years, and they’re more or less allowed to do anything as long as they’re in their Tower by curfew.

He quickly lists to the kitchens, tickling the pear and getting inside, the movements still second nature to him. Dobby’s name is on the tip of his tongue for a second, before he swallows and calls out for Kreacher instead. The elf appears almost instantly, a tall orange cat curling around his ankles.

Kreacher and Crookshanks struck up an unlikely friendship after Kreacher declared that the House of Black had always held cats in high esteem (Harry thought of Sirius’ Animagus form and had to hide a laugh) and proceeded to make the half Kneazle all kinds of fancy dishes to find its favourite.

He’s also all too happy to give Harry some leftovers from the feast, beaming and bowing as Crookshanks watches the exchange with that superior air cats have. Harry narrow his eyes at him, struggling to hold all the food in his hands.

“Hey you, no judging. You think I haven’t noticed how much you’ve eaten over the summer?”

Hermione’s cat resembles her strangely as it stares at him hard for a second before turning around and leaving the room, all self-important disdain. Harry childishly sticks out his tongue to it, before bidding the house elves goodbye and making his way back to the dormitory.  
He’s just about to go up the stairs to the West Tower when he hears voices and comes to a halt.

“What the heck do you think you’re doing here, huh?”

“Come to shove it in our faces, how your family murdered ours and got away with it? Death Eater scum.”

He stills.

“Look at him, always gloating and so arrogant. Do you even know their names? Wait no, you don’t give a single fuck, they weren’t Purebloods. Or maybe you remember torturing them at night and get off on it?”

Then there’s the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Harry breaks into a run.

Down the corridor, three boys – fifth or sixth year Ravenclaws – have backed Malfoy into the wall. Harry’s eyes flit about, taking in the situation quickly. They have his wand, but only one of the three has his own drawn. The one talking has a hand at Malfoy’s throat, his fist clenched as if ready to punch again. The third is kicking at his legs, insulting him under his breath.

And Malfoy is just taking it, narrow mouth twisted in a scowl as the darkness under his eye spreads. There’s a cut on his nose, a bit of blood dripping down his cheek.

“Is that really all you’ve got?” He drawls. “Oh yes, kick the bad Death Eater. Go to sleep knowing you’ve made this world a bit better. Might as well join Gryffindor. Oh wait no, that would require actual fighting, not just attacking the losing side three to one once the war is over…we can’t have that.”

The tirade earns him another punch, and the back of his head hits the wall.

“ _Accio_ wands!”

Four wands fly into Harry’s hand, and four faces swivel to him.

“Don’t ever. Don’t ever let me catch you at this again,” he says, his tone icy.

He doesn’t know how or when it happened, but he’s seething, jaw clenched in disgust. Who the fuck do those kids think they are? The boys gape. They probably thought he’d be proud of them or something. One opens his mouth to protest, and promptly closes it again at the sight of Harry’s face.

“We all lost people to the war. Now justice has been served, and if Malfoy is here rather than Azkaban, maybe there’s a reason for that. If I see you attacking students again, you’ll have a lot more to deal with. Now go on,” he tells the Ravenclaws. “Get lost.”

He throws the wands to the ground at their feet and they scramble to get them before hurrying away. Once they’re gone, Harry turns to Malfoy. The former Death Eater is staring at him with fury in his eyes.

“Well done. Did that feel good? Some kind of ego trip, or do you really still insist on making my life a sodding nightmare?”

Once again, Harry is thrown by Malfoy’s animosity.

“I was. I was literally just trying to help? What?”

Malfoy actually laughs. An utterly cold, mirthless laugh that makes the hairs on Harry’s arms stand up. He grits his teeth.

“Oh, but yes of course, I forget. It must have been _so hard_ for our chosen one this summer, without anything to save. You must have been so terribly bored.” His tone is sugar sweet, contempt colouring every syllable. “Well spare me your oh-so-heroic ‘help’, I won’t feed your narcissism. Find yourself another pet project,” he sneers. “I think I saw Weasley walk by in his atrocious robes just before. Seems like the monetary issues haven’t been solved…maybe you can start there?”

Within seconds, Harry has him right back up against the wall.

“Don’t you fucking dare talk about them.”

“I mean, you must know of a least _a couple_ of addresses that could help the girl weasel make some extra cash on the side, being an orphan and all. I heard certain brothels will give out leftovers to hungry children on the street. Touching, isn’t it?”

Malfoy doesn’t have the time to escape the punch, but he’s laughing as blood drips from his mouth.

“Yes, go ahead, hit me. Show me how much better you are than those Ravenclaw boys. Harry Potter, the most brave and kind-hearted of them all.”

Harry shoves him away, disgusted with him and with himself. How dare he insult the Weasleys and suggest those things about Ginny? How dare he talk about Harry’s childhood? And how dare he still be able to get under Harry’s skin like no one else?

He leaves a bloody, grinning Malfoy in the corridor as he picks up the food where he left it earlier and walks up the stairs to his dormitory. Merlin, he needs to get drunk.

 

* * *

 

 

“Yeah but Snape is, like, scary. Or was, or whatever.”

“And the Squid isn’t scary? It has tentacles!” Seamus exclaims.

“Neville’s Boggart was Snape and no one’s Boggart was the Squid,” Dean points out, and everyone is silent a couple of moments.

“Dean gets points for complicated sentence,” Ron finally nods, hugging the bottle to his chest.

“But wait, the Giant Squid is _wet_. Imagine kissing something wet and slimy.”

This time, Harry speaks up.

“But Snape was so, like, _oily_. His hair all greasy and stuff. It would be wet and slimy too!”

The six boys all make horrified faces, except for Ron, who giggles.

“But Harry you like wet kisses! Remember Cho? Maybe you would like kissing Snape! Snape and Harry, Snape plus Harry, Snarry…”

He starts humming ‘Snape and Harry sitting in a tree’, and Harry makes a violent grab for the bottle. The alcohol burns on the way down, and he feels himself relaxing further as warmth courses down his limbs, making things a bit fuzzier.

“Harry that’s terrible,” Ernie is saying. “Don’t get me wrong, I do like very wet lips. Just not the ones on girls’ _faces_.”

There are collective disgusted groans around the room, and Harry quickly takes another swig of the bottle. He needs more of that fuzziness, _now_. They’ve had a bottle and a half of Fireball by now and are all drunk off their arses, which is a bad thing because classes tomorrow but also it’s a good thing because Harry needs to forget the way Malfoy attacked him before. Well no, he attacked Malfoy, but Malfoy attacked him _verbally_ which is almost as bad and really Harry shouldn’t care but he never thought Malfoy could still hate him after what happened, he thought maybe–

“Harry! Did you fight with Malfoy?” Ron exclaims. “Already?”

Did he just talk out loud? Oh well, guess it’s _that_ part of the night.

“The _worst_ is!” Anthony says, wide-eyed, “there’s _no way_ we can just ig- _ignore_ them this year. Because we _all_ live _together_.”

“Argh,” Seamus gasps and steals the bottle from Harry. “I need this.”

“Please give me the fire,” Anthony moans. “It’s the only way to survive this year.”

“This is our only light in this dark, dark time,” Seamus says enthusiastically.

“Our only hope,” Dean agrees.

“A silver lining in this terrible storm,” Ernie adds.

“I think it’s ‘cloud’, actually.”

Everyone turns to stare at Ron. Dean points an accusing finger.

“You’re becoming your girlfriend and it’s terrifying.”

“Terrifering,” Harry nods. “Imagine,” he waves his hands around. “A very angry Hermione. Like, very angry. She could take over the world! Terfying.”

“Woah. Mean Hermione. Dark Lord Hermione!” Justin gasps, and everyone contemplates the idea in a somewhat horrified silence.

“But you could have saved us, you’re the chosen one!” Ernie cries out.

Both Ron and Harry immediately shake their head.

“It’s _Hermione_.”

“Please keep her happy,” Dean entreats, holding on to Ron’s arm. “Remember the wet lips.”

Ron suddenly turns completely crimson, and Harry fake-retches.

“Ugh.”

“Uh please, you. You shagged my sister. And then you broke up.”

Everyone turns to Harry, who is gasping and shaking his head.

“She wanted to break up! I didn’t–no heartbreak! Everything is good,” he insists. “Very good. So good.”

“As good as the sex?” Seamus smirks, and then whimpers a complaint because both Harry and Ron have thrown their pillows at him.

“I never want to think about Gin and sex!” Ron cries out before shuffling to Harry and grabbing his hand. “But it’s okay, because you’re my mate and I love you.”

“Mate,” Harry whispers back, and suddenly there are confetti falling on top of their heads.

“Neat!” He hears Seamus say in the distance. “Teach me that spell.”

Through the confetti, Harry holds his best friend’s hand tight.

“I’m gonna miss you in the bed next to me but. We will survive!”

Ron nods enthusiastically.

“We survived Voldemort and death! We can do this year!” He pauses, wrinkles his nose. “I mean there’s Slytherins in the common room but! We will try.”

Harry’s grin feels too big for his face, and he pats Ron’s cheek once before passing out.


	2. twisted up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drake's pov

**CHAPTER 2**

_“I’m never what I like,_

_I’m double-sided, and I just can’t hide,_

_I kind of like it when I make you cry,_

_Cause I’m twisted up, I’m twisted up inside” – Semi-automatic, twenty-one pilots_

 

Draco is half-way through his first toast when Pansy Parkinson plops down on the seat next to him. He purses his lips and pours himself some tea.

“Are you going to acknowledge me at all?”

Draco’s fingers tremble only the slightest bit as he takes a few gulps of the tea. It’s disgusting because there’s no sugar, but the sugar cup is further down the table, and he’d rather not ask anyone for it.

“Or are you just going to wallow in misery and self-hate the rest of the year?”

She lets out a frustrated groan at his continued silence, and a second one when she sees him wince the slightest bit at the taste of his tea. She grabs the sugar and hands it out to him, but when Draco makes to take it, she won’t let go.

“At least talk to me.”

He sighs.

“Hello Pansy,” he says and pours some sugar into his cup.

She stares at him a couple of seconds before cursing.

“Draco this has to stop. I know you don’t wanna be here, and Merlin knows I don’t either, but now that we both are we ought to stick together. There’s no point isolating yourself and making it worse than it has to be, you’ve been punished enough. And maybe things can’t be the same, I mean 6th year was horrible and I know you suffered even worse during the war, but–”

And Merlin, Pansy is actually expressing _concerns_ about his _feelings_. What has the world come to? It’s high time to intervene.

“Pansy, we haven’t even been back for a day.”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“So? That’s plenty of time. It corresponds to about six rants about how tired you are, twenty-five about the poor quality of the food and at least forty-six about Potter, thirty-four of which are probably directed at his hair.”

Draco, on the verge of protesting, pauses. It’s true that Potter’s hair is dreadful.

“My, Pansy, I never knew you were such an avid listener.”

She shrugs.

“No, I usually tune it out, have done since second year, but it provides delightful background noise.”

A smile plays around Draco’s lips, and Pansy grins. Once again, she wins, the daft bint. They spend the rest of breakfast complaining about their roommates. Pansy is roomed with a couple of Ravenclaws, which she apparently has a lot to say about.

It’ll be good to have her here, he decides. His first instinct was to close off, as it always is when he’s feeling vulnerable, but clearly, she won’t let him have his way. And having an ally, even if she’s the other social pariah of the school, may be a good thing. Not to mention she’s been his closest friend throughout his years at Hogwarts.

But he doesn’t understand why she’s here. Draco was forced into coming back, he was – quite leniently – sentenced to finish his education. But Pansy doesn’t have to be here, she doesn’t have to endure the hate and the insults and the _looks_. She especially doesn’t have to make it worse by associating herself with the Death Eater.

She must have caught his look because she cuts off her own rant and huffs.

“Wondering why I’m here huh? Guess what, Draco. I’m the girl who wanted to hand Potter in. Think I can make any new friends this year? Plus, Blaise and Trace are gone, so you’re the only one I can count on for passable conversation this year.”

“But why Hogwarts. Why come back at all?” Draco asks, eyes firmly riveted on his teacup.

“My dad is bankrupt,” Pansy says harshly. “There’s no money and I need to get my NEWTs if I can get a chance to earn something and get out of this hellhole of a country. We’re both at the bottom, Draco, deal with it.”

Her eyes glaze over the Gryffindor table, where people are laughing rambunctiously. A couple of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws stand close to the table, trying to make conversation, probably to get noticed by Potter’s little entourage.

She sniffs.

“Although it _is_ revolting.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey Death Eater!”

Draco closes his eyes for a split-second before walking on, refusing to break his stride as the students call after him. He has a class to be at in just under five minutes, and judging from the teachers’ attitude towards him this morning, he absolutely cannot afford to be late. Especially not to Defence against the Dark Arts.

Pansy doesn’t take the class, so he’s on his own as the idiots start insulting his parents.

“Hey, how many of the Wizengamot did your mum have to fuck so you’d go free?” calls one.

Draco’s left hand clenches automatically, blunt fingernails digging into his own skin. He can’t reach for his wand, or he’s done for.

“At least half of them, for majority. I heard Harry Potter testified for him. Did she fuck him too?”

“Or did you?” The first one snickers.

Draco feels something bitter in his mouth as he remembers Potter coming to his aid last night. That self-entitled fucker, as if continuously saving Draco’s life wasn’t bad enough.

Something hits his leg and he stumbles, gritting his teeth against the pain. Just a stinging hex, he’s been through much worse, now if the stairs would just _cooperate_. Unfortunately, it seems even the stairs are averse to him in this damned castle, as they stall mid-air for a couple of minutes, during which he has the pleasure of receiving several more well-placed stinging hexes, along with a tripping jinx – which he thankfully resists thanks to the balustrade –, before finally leading him to the right floor.

His shoulders are stiff, there are blisters forming on his legs and his left palm hurts, but he’s on time. Most of the Gryffindors are in the class, he notes, along with some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. He’s the only Slytherin. As every for every class, it’s a mix of regular 7th years and 8th years, according to what they chose to graduate their NEWTs in.

Not that Draco would have chosen to attend, but taking Muggle Studies and Defence against the Dark Arts is part of his sentence, like the government wants to make sure he knows what Death Eaters did during the war was _bad_. As if that red-eyed psychopath wasn’t convincing enough.

Draco quickly picks a seat at the back of the class, but he still hears the whispered curses as he walks by the other desks. He sits and gets ready. His book is open to the first chapter. Ink in the right corner of the table. Quill aligned with the right side of the book. Parchment parallel to the book. His face is a blank mask. He breathes in, and out.

Keeps his eyes firmly on fixed on the desk as the rest of the students file in. He can tell instantly when Harry Potter enters. There’s an initial hush over the classroom, then an excited murmur. He can almost _feel_ the energy and awe rippling through the students. He keeps his eyes firmly to his desk, even as he hears Potter slump onto a chair not too far away.

More surprising is when someone else sits next to him. He looks up to see Longbottom nod at him.

“Malfoy.”

“Longbottom,” he says warily.

“We’re sharing a dorm so I figure we could try to be civil.”

Draco’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You wanna be civil with the person who bullied you for years and then joined your sworn enemies? My, maybe the legendary open-heartedness of Gryffindors _wasn’t_ exaggerated.”

Longbottom ignores the sarcasm, shrugging.

“Harry testified for you, and that’s enough for me. He thinks you were dragged into something you wanted no part of out of loyalty.”

“Oh, does he.” Draco’s tone is so cold, even _he_ is surprised. “I’m to be pitied then. Say, since he knows me so well, did he also tell you about the fancy tricks I learned from Aunt Bella? Ah wait, but you would know all about those, wouldn’t you? I heard your parents are still at Mungo’s. Send them my regards, won’t you?”

Longbottom lets out a sort of gasp, as if it has never occurred to him that someone could be so needlessly cruel. A memory of Bellatrix’s mad laughter as she takes her time killing Muggle children jumps at Draco, and suddenly feels sick. He wants to excuse himself and to Longbottom and tell him how glad he is that the bitch is dead, but he can’t do that, so he simply sneers and turns to face the front of the classroom.

The teacher is entering, a 40-something year old man with a hard face and a limp. A retired Auror, his mother told him, so he’s not likely to do Draco any favours, quite the contrary. _Good_. He sets his jaw and listens to the lecture.

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, Draco stays in the dormitory instead of joining others in the Great Hall for dinner. He can hear people chatting in the common room, yet he sits still, staring at the letter in his hands. Aristoteles, the house owl, came by to give it to Draco after classes, and he went straight to his bedroom to read it. But now his eyes are stuck to the last paragraph, as they have been for the better part of an hour.

_You must visit him, Draco dear. I know it may be difficult, but he has been asking for you, and I think it would do you both a lot of good._

_Take care,_

_Your loving mother._

He can imagine his father in Azkaban, skin gaunt over his bones and yet that elegant tilt to his chin, that sneer on his mouth. A perfect copy of his own.

With a growl, Draco _Incendio_ s the letter. The flash of fire sends his heart racing, but he wills himself still, even if there’s no one around to witness his flinch.

Oh yes, that Malfoy pride, how it still rules his life. He remembers the endless lessons of his father, when he was just a child learning about the importance of blood purity and family names. And look where that superiority has brought Lucius, rotting in a cell as his name is cursed everywhere in England. Dragging his family down with him.

And now the self-importance, the arrogance and pride seared into Draco – and yet never mastered to perfection, leaving him in tatters but unable to accept help – burns him to the bone, hotter than the Fiendfyre he’s still so terrified of. He’s panting, he realizes somewhat belatedly, and there’s a lone tear rolling down his face.

Draco drops his gaze, regretting his outburst – none of this is his mother’s fault – and his eyes fall on his left arm, left exposed when he took off his robes. The Dark Mark seems to mock him, the rough, cruel-looking lines and leering skull speaking of countless tortures.

Longbottom’s words come back to him. _He thinks you were dragged into something you wanted no part of out of loyalty_. Draco stares at the Dark Mark, remembering Potter coming to his aid time and time again despite the potent hate between them. Saving his life several times – Draco can still feel the heat, the fear heavy on his tongue –, and then testifying for him. Just in and out of the courtroom. Another person crossed off the list of the Saviour of the sodding Wizarding World. And then helping him yesterday because there are people who truly go around and do what they think is right, and Draco hates him for it. For destroying his life and then making it impossible for Draco to feel ungrateful.

His thoughts are cut off when Longbottom walks into the dormitory. Immediately Draco Vanishes the ashes from the letter and sits up straighter. He barely spares a look to Draco though; his lip simply curls in distaste and he heads straight to his own bed.

Draco feels guilty for what must the hundredth time today. Longbottom was trying to be decent, even friendly, earlier. It’s not his fault Draco is like a ticking time bomb.

“Longbottom.”

The boy looks over, his face hard. It’s the face of the Longbottom who continually stood up to the Carrows and slayed Nagini. Draco forces himself to keep eye contact, his face carefully blank.

“I want to apologize,” he says stiffly. “For the way I behaved. This morning and…in the past.”

Longbottom’s eyebrows shoot up and his scowl deepens.

“Was that? Did you just try to apologize for the war?”

Anger flashes through Draco like lightning.

“Don’t be as stupid as you always seemed like during Hogwarts,” he snaps. “No words can make up for my actions during the war.”

He cuts himself off forcefully and takes a deep breath to steady himself.

“No. I am…sorry for this morning. I didn’t mean it. And I am sorry for how,” he swallows hard, his gaze holding Longbottom’s through sheer force of will and every word coming out as a struggle. “How I acted towards you during our childhood.”

There’s a bit of silence.

“That’s seriously one of the worst apologies I’ve ever heard.”

Rejection flashes hot through Draco. Sod these Gryffindors, sod them all. They’re all the same, incapable of–

“But I didn’t really expect one at all so…I accept,” Longbottom says with a shrug.

Draco reels back in shock. Longbottom shoots him a wry smile before getting ready for bed. Draco sits in silence for a few moments before feeling a tentative smile stretch his own lips.

If Lucius were here, he’d be horrified: a Malfoy has just sought the forgiveness of a blood traitor. The thought makes Draco’s smile widen. Feeling somewhat better, Draco goes down to the common room, where Pansy descends on him immediately.

“I don’t wanna hear excuses Draco,” she yaps before he can even open his mouth. “There’s only one way you can repay me for abandoning me.”

“What do you want, Pansy?” Draco asks somewhat tiredly as she drags him away from where people are gathered around the fireplace and towards the window.

“I need to know how hot Longbottom’s chest is on a scale of 1 to 10.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh come on, it’s common knowledge, he got hot over the summer between 6th and 7th. But I wonder if the rumours are true…”

He must be looking at her in quite a horrified way, because she rolls her eyes.

“What? It’s not like I wanna do him, he’s still a bloody Gryffindor. But where’s the harm in looking? And, more to point, asking your friend what he looks like?”

“How am I supposed to rate him from one to ten?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’re gay, you can rate a guy.”

Draco stares, dumbfounded. He really did _not_ see this coming.

“I’m not gay.”

“Draco, in fourth year I tried to suck you off, and your fourteen-year-old cock didn’t move an inch. You’re gay. It’s either that or you simply have no sexual drive whatsoever and cannot get it up at all.”

His head shoots up, affronted.

“I can get it up! I have a sexual drive.”

“Aha!”

Pansy looks like the cat who got the cream, and Draco sniffs.

“You’re so crass.”

“Alright, forget about Longbottom. How did classes go?”

At that, he relaxes, and lets the feelings of injustice from the day wash over him.

“That new Defence teacher was giving me the stink eye, but who cares. Much worse is the fact that _Slughorn_ ignored me. Can you imagine a Potions teacher ignoring his most gifted student when he’s from his own House?”

He pauses, and Pansy whispers something that sounds suspiciously like ‘and here we go’.

“Actually, never mind, I can. That man is ridiculous, I tell you. I cannot believe he’s a teacher. Isn’t it a testament to how low this school is when they can’t attract decent teachers? I remember Snape complaining that he was stealing from the potion ingredient storage. And with his little Slug club and his obvious favourites, ugh. It’s repulsive. He has almost less class than you.”

“I resent that,” Pansy says mildly. “I brought you food and all.”

Draco stops just as he was taking a deep breath to continue his rant.

“You did?”

“It’s dessert.”

“Pansy, I take everything back. You have always been the one for me. Though your outer appearance strangely resembles the one of an ugly pug, your inner beauty blinds me and drives me wild with love.”

“You’re gay, Draco.”

“I resent that.”

They exchange a grin before Pansy takes out a couple of his favourite desserts from her bag. He digs in, his left hand lying on her lap in a silent thank you. Pansy affectionately rubs the back of his neck.

“I don’t understand how so many people could have been afraid of you during all these years, honestly.” She shakes her head. “You’re so easy.”

“Sugar is my only weakness,” Draco says proudly around a chocolate muffin.

“Yes well, there’s sugar, flattery, physical affection–”

Draco snatches his hand back, scooting away and sending her a murderous look.

“Fine. I get your point.”

They bicker amicably as Draco finishes the sweets, and he’s infinitely grateful for Pansy’s presence keeping the dark thoughts at bay. But eventually all the other students have gone back to their dormitories, and he sends Pansy off too. She’s always needed at least nine hours of sleep per night, otherwise she turns into even more of a cranky bitch, and Draco can say goodbye to extra dessert.

Once he’s alone, Draco sits on the windowsill and looks out onto the grounds. He’s knackered, but it feels so wrong going back into the dormitory, sleeping among heroes and innocents. He feels quite literally like a serpent in the den.

Death Eater. Bigot. _Coward_. He knows it is phantom pain, but his Dark Mark stings, and he curls his hands up. He stares at the lake in the distance and fights against nausea.

He doesn’t know how long he stays sitting there, but he turns back when he hears a rustle. To his surprise, Hermione Granger is sitting in front of the fire in an armchair, reading a book. It’s been dark for hours; Draco would guess it’s around 3am. She must have seen him when she came in, he thinks, as he’s in plain view from the girls’ stairwell. Yet she hasn’t said a word, and it seems she’s been sitting there for a long time.

The rustling sound comes again, and Draco realizes there’s someone else going down the stairs. He comes into view, strong shoulders slimming to a thin waist, messy inky hair and pale features. Potter looks like shit. His eyes lack the usual light that sends the entire British population into overdrive, instead they’re looking somewhat empty and shadowed by exhaustion.

He drags his feet to an armchair next to Granger and almost collapses. She looks up momentarily and smiles gently.

“That bad?”

“Sirius,” Potter simply responds, yet Draco can tell how loaded the word is by Granger’s reaction.

Her eyebrows draw up and she places a comforting hand on Potter’s arm before returning to his book. They fall silent, and even though they aren’t doing anything, Draco feels like he’s intruding. Because this is the silence of friends who have lived through terrible things together and instinctively understand what the other needs.

For the first time of his life, Draco sees people that look as ravaged by the war as he feels. He sits on the windowsill until the morning, watching the fire diminish in the chimney and the silent shapes of Potter and Granger.

 

* * *

 

 

The next couple of days pass in a blur of bland classes, long essays and altercations between students and Draco. It’s usually limited to insults, except during the night patrols. Another rule McGonagall set for the 8th years are night patrols, ‘because certain parts of Hogwarts haven’t been rebuilt, so it’s even more imperial that young students are in bed after curfew’.

Draco paired up with Theodore, who takes every opportunity he gets to spend time in the owlery, corresponding with Blaise or mourning his father or who knows what. It’s perfect for Draco, who just wants some time to himself, and wandering the obscure corridors where he knows no one will be is a wonderful solution. Although it does give the perfect opportunity for bullies.

“I heard you helped Bellatrix torture the Longbottoms,” snarls the girl who’s currently punching Draco.

“Really,” Draco drawls, “at the tender age of two months, I was already quite the sadist.”

He should have figured by now that making fun of the people holding him down isn’t the best strategy, but really, how _stupid_ can one be? He receives two more punches, on his nose and his mouth. They’re clumsy and weak, but painful enough.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him,” mutters the dark-haired boy at her side. “He’s a Malfoy, all the inbreeding probably made him insane.”

Draco doesn’t have time to figure out to even try and respond to that, before he hears footsteps down the corridor.

“Are you two supposed to be out of your dormitory?” Potter asks in a deceptively calm and pleasant voice. “Because I suggest that’s where you run off to now before I report you to McGonagall and make sure you never set your feet back in this castle.”

They scamper off.

Draco and Potter lock eyes, as if gauging each other.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re stalking me,” Draco says, and turns his head to spit out the blood from this mouth.

Potter picks up Draco’s wand from where the two idiots shoved it away from him.

“ _Relashio_ ,” he says, and Draco slumps down as the spell releases him.

He looks up to see his own wand in Potter’s hand, pointed towards him. And he knows that Potter is probably just handing it to him, but the sight brings back an onslaught of horrible memories; wandering wandless in the Manor, fearing Alecto and Amycus at every turn, his father’s _Crucios_ for indirectly helping the Dark Lord’s enemy get away, facing Potter in the Room of Requirement with a defective wand as the flames of Fiendfyre lick closer.

Fury at his left-over helplessness washes over him, and he stands up to wrench his wand away from Potter’s hand. Potter’s eyes are very green as they look Draco up and down, looking for either wounds, or maybe a new way to hurt him – god knows he’s good at it. Draco wouldn’t know. He feels vulnerable before this gaze, and grits his teeth.

“This whole saving me business is becoming a habit. Maybe you should see someone about that.”

Potter ignores him.

“Does this happen often?”

“Spare me your pity. I can’t stand the sight of it,” Draco snarls. “Now kindly fuck off.”

When Potter doesn’t move, he bursts out.

“Fucking off, Potter, it means going away. Leaving me. You must be familiar with the term, isn’t that what people have always done to you?”

The instant the word leave his mouth, he knows he’s gone too far. Like he always seems to do. Potter’s eyes darken, his jaw clenching, and Draco almost can’t wait. Perfect, he thinks savagely. Hurt me.

But Potter simply sighs raggedly and shakes his head.

“I’m not falling for this again. Go clean yourself up, Malfoy. You look horrible.”

And Draco is left staring, feeling strangely bereft, as Potter does exactly what he asked him to do and walks away, back down the corridor and out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on tumblr @trlvia <3


	3. blood

**CHAPTER 3**

_“I don’t know how to stay tender_

_With this much blood in my mouth.” – Hamlet, Shakespeare_

 

Harry wakes up with a start, his hand pressed against his forehead. He can hear his heart beating away like there’s no tomorrow, his blood rushing in his ears.

“It’s nothing, it doesn’t hurt, Voldemort is gone. It’s nothing, it doesn’t hurt, Voldemort is gone,” he whispers repeatedly to himself until the echo of a pain at his scar ebbs away.

He stands up from the bed, his legs only trembling a little, and makes his way down to the common room.

As he expected, Hermione is there, curled up on an armchair in front of the fire. Back in Grimmaud Place, Kreacher stopped putting out the fires in the evening after the third time he found them asleep in the living-room in the morning. She offers him a tired smile before returning to her book. She never did get rid of that habit to wake up every four hours.

Harry settles on another armchair, trying to think of happier things. The back of his neck is prickling as if someone was staring at him and he sighs, hating how long his nightmares leave him feeling hunted and exposed after he wakes up.

He stares into the fire and wills his mind to stay quiet.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s not like you can just shove a Bezoar down the throat of everyone who’s been poisoned,” Hermione chides them.

“Actually, evidence shows that you can,” Ron says, pointing at his own chest.

There’s some ink stains along with the freckles on his nose, and he has a bright, relaxed smile despite his complaints. Harry and Ron are trying to make a case against the utility of antidotes and thus necessity of the stupid essay they’ve been trying to write for hours.

“Harry just got lucky.”

Harry snorts.

“As usual. They should just call me The Boy Who Got Lucky by now.”

“Except you’re not getting lucky, are you?” Ron grins, waggling his eyebrows. “Unless you’ve found someone new to have fun between the sheets with?”

“I sincerely hope I didn’t hear what I just heard,” comes Ginny’s amused voice as she walks towards their table.

She grins at Harry, all dimples and mischievous look in her eyes. It doesn’t feel like his nerves are on fire at her sight anymore, but his heart still gives a warm tug.

In the days following the Battle, when Harry felt empty and lost and obligated to go to every single funeral, he and Ginny hung onto each other. He probably wouldn’t have gotten through it without her, at least not without breaking down from the pressure of the press, who continually looked to him as the image of hope for a better future.

Yet when things started to quiet down and Ron left to help with reparations and Harry had to choose between living at the Burrow – where the family was trying to cope with the loss of Fred – and at Grimmauld Place – still haunted by remnants of dark magic –, his overwhelming need for Ginny’s support faded.

And behind it, he discovered with some surprise, there was loyalty and fondness and some attraction, but nothing all-encompassing like he had always thought their love was. She must have felt the same way, because when he met with her for the last time before moving back into Grimmauld Place with Hermione, she simply smiled. ‘We’re still young,’ she said. ‘We have time to figure it out. And whatever happens, you’ll always be my friend.’

“I’m afraid that’s what you did hear,” Hermione intervenes. “What I don’t hear though, is the sound of quills scratching parchment. You did not vanquish PTSD and return to Hogwarts to fail Potions, boys!”

Both of them roll their eyes at her dramatics, but Ron dutifully returns to his essay while Harry stays turned towards Ginny.

“First week gone okay?”

“It was fine. Although less fun than yours, if my sources are correct. Parties in the 8th year dorms, huh?”

Harry simply grins, mimicking the movement of zipping his mouth shut. Ginny sighs.

“Fine, I guess I won’t be invited. Anyway, I’m here about Quidditch.”

At that, Ron drops his quill again and leans in to listen.

“Since you guys can’t be on the team and all, I was wondering if you’d help me out choose people at try-outs?”

The boys agree with much enthusiasm, and are about to return to their essays with far less enthusiasm, when Hermione intervenes.

“What’s this about parties in the dorms? Why haven’t I been invited?”

Harry shrugs. There have been a few more nights of drinking since the first one, but it’s only ever been between a couple of boys from Ron and Harry’s dorms.

“I guess it could be fun to also invite girls,” he says. “Have everyone hang out together.”

Ron narrows his eyes at him for a moment before nodding.

“Yeah, you’re looking to get lucky.”

His ink holder mysteriously tips and spills over his parchment, and he lets out a cry, torn between clutching the half-ruined essay in despair and glaring daggers Harry.

“I will get back at you for that, I swear to Merlin, Harry, you’re so dead.”

Harry, still grinning, holds his hands palms up.

“I don’t know what you mean. My wand is literally on the other side of the table.”

Ron just grumbles and tries to wash off the ink as Hermione and Harry share a secret smirk. Well, Ron did miss their days spent training wandless spells when he was at Hogwarts in August. And so far, Harry has seen no need to inform him of it.

“And to think, you’ll have to write those two sentences all over again,” he mock-sighs, and receives a quill in his face.

It takes them two hours more to write the essay and do their Transfiguration homework, and by then they’re all beyond tired of studying.

“I’m gonna drop by the common room and ask Anthony about inviting the girls,” Ron says. “See if there’s enough booze and all. Go on to dinner without me.”

“Ah, Merlin, I forgot,” Harry grimaces. “I have patrols with Luna tonight. No party for me.”

Hermione frowns.

“Patrols with _Luna_? How come? She’s a 7 th year.”

“I don’t know, she just stood up at breakfast and volunteered to pair up for patrols with me. Says the night is a perfect time to catch…actually, I don’t even remember the name. But yeah,” he shrugs, “got myself a partner. Although so far, all she does is disappear on me.”

“Ah, gotta love good old Luna,” Ron grins.

 

* * *

 

 

However, Harry is not feeling the love much as he turns around for the fifth time tonight and notices that Luna isn’t by his side anymore. It’s not like he really needs her for his rounds, but technically speaking, if she gets caught by another patrol of 8th years, she’ll be at fault. And he hardly thinks losing her House points is going to help her relationship with the other Ravenclaws.

While most of their friend group has gotten exceedingly popular after the war, Luna is still being shunned by her house mates (she insists that she’s not being bullied anymore, so really, it’s better than ever, but that doesn’t really reassure him).

The topic of bullying brings his mind right back to Malfoy. Seems that if anything, returning to Hogwarts has brought back _that_ old habit. But it’s just that he’s so _infuriating_. He looks so angry whenever Harry comes to his aid, which makes zero sense. And the things he says, _Merlin_ , it’s like he knows exactly what topics hurt Harry the most and enjoys pulling on the strings. It makes Harry’s blood boil. The easiest solution would be to leave him alone, but it’s not like he can’t stand idly by while Malfoy is being physically and verbally abused.

With a sigh, Harry looks up from where he was staring angrily at the ground, and realizes that he’s in front of the Great Hall. After a considering moment, he pushes the door and walks through the empty room, all the way to the back where he knows the carved bricks are.

He runs his fingers down the names. Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. Fred Weasley. Colin Creevey. All slain some time during the Final Battle, when Harry was running around, spineless and confused. If only he had been faster in figuring out the Ravenclaw secret. If only he had found Snape earlier. If he hadn’t taken so much time giving himself up. Would one of these lives have been saved?

The door to the Great Hall slams shut behind someone, and Harry looks up, Luna’s name on his lips. But it isn’t Luna. It’s Malfoy, because _of course_ it is. Harry can’t help a sigh, and briefly wonders what he must have done in his past life to deserve this.

But Malfoy doesn’t seem to have noticed him yet. He’s walking down the room a bit aimlessly, hand clutching his left arm, face raised to look at the night sky reflected on the ceiling. His walk is less confident when he thinks he’s alone, the shadows under his eyes more prominent. Harry is almost too busy staring at Malfoy to realize that he’s come to a standstill. 

“Potter. Of course. Where are you not?”

“I’m just,” Harry half points to the wall.

“Ah, reminiscing about all the people you couldn’t save, then.” Malfoy half-snorts. “I can only imagine how hard it is, not actually being the Saviour of the _entire_ Wizarding World. For shame, you weren’t absolutely perfect. Those regrets must keep you up at night.”

Considering Malfoy’s bitter tone – probably thinking of his own personal regrets – Harry decides not to mention how spot-on his guess is.

“I might have just been mourning, you know,” he retorts instead.

“Mourning,” Malfoy murmurs, a strange expression twisting his arrogant face, “what a luxury. Vincent’s name isn’t there you know.”

Harry stares.

“Vincent…as in Vincent Crabbe? Death Eater Vincent Crabbe? At the risk of sounding redundant…he was a Death Eater. He died trying to kill me.”

 “He was a _child_. If I get to be an innocent, manipulated child, then does he,” Malfoys says sharply. “Why am _I_ exempted from punishment when everyone celebrates his death?” 

“Because you didn’t want it,” Harry says, words spilling from his mouth almost without his consent. “You were scared and trying to save yourself and your family.”

Malfoy sneers.

“How presumptuous of you to think that.”

“I saw you.” Harry deadpans. “I had a connection with Voldemort and could see through his eyes. I saw him make you _Crucio_ people. I know you didn’t want to do it. And I was there on the tower with Dumbledore. I know you’re not a murderer.”

Malfoy has gone completely pale.

“Enjoyed that, did you? Seeing what a _coward_ ,” he spits out the word like it burns his mouth, “I was? Thinking to yourself how I couldn’t stand up to the Dark Lord, and then couldn’t even be a fucking decent Death Eater. How satisfying to you. Yeah, you’ve won through and through. Anything else we need to mention?”

“I didn’t–It wasn’t like that!”

How did this all go wrong so fast? How does this keep happening? Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Malfoy as angry. His face is white, lips trembling, grey eyes looking at Harry like he would like nothing more than to tear him apart limb per limb. And so he does, but with his words.

“Oh yes, you also insisted on pulling me out of the fire and leaving Crabbe in it. Who are you to decide who gets to live and who dies? Did all the attention give you a god complex?”

“I don’t decide who lives and who dies,” Harry grits out, pointedly looking at the bricks on the wall. “I didn’t get to decide anything.”

“Yet you got my father sent to Azkaban, and my mother and I forgiven. Why do you get to decide who is innocent and who’s guilty? What, did you expect gratitude? Or did my mother saving your life remind you of _your_ mom? Thought she could take over as such now?”

“Don’t talk about my mother,” Harry warns, his control wearing thin.

“Though she wasn’t that amazing, was she? Leaving you to live with abusers. Such a Gryffindor thing to do, stupidly dying for someone, instead of staying alive and actually figuring out a way to help.”

“You know nothing! I’m only alive today because of my mother! The only sodding reason that Voldemort is dead is because of my mother’s sacrifice. What did your parents do? Murder people and force you to torture Muggleborns?”

Malfoy cocks his head to the side, eyes glittering dangerously.

“Yes, that’s right. I particularly enjoyed Ted Tonk’s screams.”

“You fucker,” Harry swears, and even though he knows Malfoy is lying, that he probably had nothing to do with Ted’s death, he gives in.

His punch catches Malfoy square in the chin, and the git _actually_ looks delighted, like he was dying for a fight himself. He pounces on Harry, grabbing the back of his neck so he can’t escape the hit, right to his nose. Harry feels the blood dripping, and it brings him straight back to sixth year, when Malfoy broke his nose and attacked students and almost killed Ron and Dumbledore and allowed the Death Eaters into the castle, and suddenly all the excuses evaporate because Malfoy doesn’t seem like he’s regretting any of it _now_.

Malfoy raises his eyebrows mockingly. _What are you gonna do?_

Harry elbows him right in the face. Malfoy’s grip on his neck falters as he falls back a couple of steps, crying out in pain. Harry takes the opportunity to move in and punches him again, this time in the solar plexus. Malfoy’s legs crumble under him but he has just the time to take hold of Harry’s robes and drag him down with him. Harry has no time to prepare himself for the fall and his head hits the ground hard. His ears ring from the force of the impact, and Malfoy rolls out from under him. He automatically raises his arms to brace himself against Malfoy’s inevitable blows, but he still gets a few hits to the stomach.

Harry lets out a groan and scrambles back onto his knees, before reaching to where Malfoy is hovering over him and yanking him right back down to the ground by his hair. Malfoy lets out a veritable yowl of pain, and pushes at Harry, making his head hit the ground for the second time. Harry groans as his vision swims, and he blindly throws his arm out in hopes of reaching some part of Malfoy and hurting him. His fist connects with soft flesh, an arm, he thinks, and Malfoy is about to stand up again so he throws himself onto him, holding him down with his weight.

Malfoy is letting out all kinds of infuriated, indignant sounds as he struggles to get out from under Harry, who’s just trying to get a good punch in.

All this pent-up anger and pain, and he pours it in every violent movement. His head hurts like hell, his stomach aches, he can feel something wet run down the side of his temple but he doesn’t relent and it feels good. It feels really fucking good.

Malfoy manages to grab Harry’s arm and twist it painfully behind his back. He’s about to push him back completely when Harry moves his left arm from where it was supporting all his weight to press it against Malfoy’s throat. Malfoy’s eyes widen and he lets out a choked noise, but doesn’t loosen his grip on Harry’s right arm.

Harry is panting and moving around, desperately trying to get out of the situation, when he suddenly feels something hard pressed against his thigh. He stills.

Instantly, he realizes three things. One, that’s Malfoy’s erection against his leg. Two, he’s so _incredibly_ aroused. Three, if he can feel Malfoy’s hard-on, Malfoy can definitely feel his.

Harry feels somewhat dizzy. There are a few moments of silence, broken only by the boys’ harsh pants, as they stare at each other. There’s blood dripping down Malfoy’s nose, a bruise forming at his mouth and a flush high on his cheeks. His eyes are impossibly wide and dark.

He hasn’t moved away.

Harry experimentally rolls his hips down, his body tense and ready to deny anything. But instead of exclaiming in horror, Malfoy’s head falls back and he lets out a helpless, wanton moan. It’s almost painful, the way it sounds like it’s been _torn_ from his throat. Harry feels desire unfurls low in his stomach, hot and potent.

Malfoy has released Harry’s arm from behind his back, and is staring into his eyes, looking shocked to the bone. Harry presses his hips down once more, and it feels so _good_ , the pleasure so primal, and yet slowly taking over his body. He exhales in a harsh pant. He can’t believe that he got turned on by fighting Malfoy. He can’t believe that Malfoy got turned on by fighting him.

Slowly, Harry removes the arm that was resting heavily on Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy doesn’t make a single move to get away and Harry watches, transfixed, the movement of his throat as he swallows hard; takes a sharp breath. Harry can’t take him eyes off it, that long column of pale, creamy skin… He only hesitates a split second before pressing his mouth against the hole between Malfoy’s throat and jaw. He bites down, licking and sucking at the soft skin and Malfoy lets out another of his low whines. His fingers are digging into Harry’s back, urging him on. Harry feels the feathers of his phoenix tattoo flutter under the touch, and a shiver of pleasure runs down his spine.

He pulls away to stare down at Malfoy. He’s panting, his grey eyes bright and his usually so perfect hair is completely messed up. Harry feels strangely pleased at the thought that he’s the one who brought Malfoy to this, who made him look like a complete wreck. His hand grabs and tangles into Malfoy’s hair. It’s surprisingly soft, but he doesn’t have time to think about it because Malfoy takes hold of his shoulder and pushes up his hips against him.

All Harry’s thoughts screech to a halt and with a groan, he pushes back against Malfoy, pleasure igniting his blood. Their erections rub together as they thrust against each other, quickly finding a rhythm, hard and fast and desperate. And rough: Malfoy’s nails digging in his shoulder blades, his teeth sinking into Malfoy’s neck. His breath is loud and harsh in his own ears, and Malfoy just won’t shut up, the moans driving Harry crazy. He feels himself getting close, edges of his vision turning white.

When he comes, there’s a taste of blood in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry likes Blackwater. Truly, he does. The retired Auror is excellent at teaching the students both theory and practice, and his classes are never boring. But that morning, when he talks about the differences between formal duels and actual wand fights and fixes his eyes on Harry, all Harry wants is to never have taken Defence this year.

Because he knows what Blackwater is going to say before he does.

“We had a formal duel demonstration last week. Let’s have a demonstration of the kind of fight an Auror can expect to find himself in. Potter, you’re somewhat experienced, come help me out.”

He pauses, his gaze sweeping the class as a smile forms at the corner of his mouth.

“Of course, Aurors spend hours a day training, so I wouldn’t expect anything of that level from students. Even if you never do take up Auror fieldwork, one can never be too sure, and it’s good to know what it is like to fight without regulations.”

“Constant vigilance,” Ron mutters next to him, and Harry sniggers.

However, he quickly sobers when Blackwater gestures for him to come to the front of the class. Harry hasn’t fought anyone since the war, but it’s still second nature to him, analysing the opponent. Blackwater has raised his wand but not made a move, probably expecting Harry to attack first in a show of strength. But if Harry has learned anything in the past years, it’s that sheer strength doesn’t win a battle.

He sees the hex coming a split second before it does. He throws himself to the side, just barely avoiding the Jelly-Leg Jinx, and pulls out his wand in the same movement. He sends a jinx back, which Blackwater easily deflects it before smiling.

“Always be prepared, children. But nicely swerved.”

They measure each other up for a couple of seconds before continuing the duel. They start off lightly, simple jinxes and few non-verbals, testing each other. Then the pace picks up as they aim for each other’s weaknesses. Blackwater favours his right side due to his old injury, while Harry’s spell work lacks precision.

Harry sends a series of hexes in rapid succession, and Blackwater simply yells a _Protego_ before sending back two hexes of his own. Harry springs away, but doesn’t have the time to escape the jinx that immediately follows. He tries to concentrate on his feet while giggling incessantly, not wanting to fall. He clumsily yells out a Bat-Bogey Hex, but his aim is off. Distantly, he hears Blackwater comment to the class on the different techniques used, but he’s too focused on finding an opening to listen himself. Finally, he sees it and seizes his opportunity, sending another succession of rapid fire jinxes. Blackwater manages to shield against most of them but doesn’t see the one aimed a bit higher than the others. He wastes some precious time preventing his nose from growing too large and blocking his vision, seconds during which Harry pushes his advantage, sending another hex at Blackwater’s right arm.

But that was non-with-counting the former Auror’s years of training. Blackwater simply grabs his wand with his left hand, as if right has never been his wand arm. He ups the level, and it’s like he was holding back before, because suddenly Harry has no time to cast at all, too caught up in blocking and avoiding Blackwater’s row of offensive spells. He comes to rely on pure instincts, springing from side to side and ducking away from the incessant light beams. Finally he makes a mistake as, distracted by a sudden thought, he loses a bit of his balance after a jump to the left, and Blackwater takes advantage of it.

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

Harry’s wand is wrenched away from his grip and lands securely in his opponent’s hand. There’s a slight smile on Blackwater’s lips as he uses Harry’s ‘signature’ spell against him, and even though Harry knows it isn’t meant like that, it sends all too many memories through him. There’s Fudge’s dismissing smiles, Tom Riddles disdainful attitude, and Bellatrix’ soft croon ‘you have to really mean it…’

Harry just _concentrates_ , and suddenly gasps erupt around the classroom as Blackwater is hit head-on by a wandless, non-verbal Stinging Hex. He cries out half in surprise, half in pain, and his hold on Harry’s wand loosens.

“ _Accio_.”

The wand flies back to its master. Blackwater has recovered from his surprise and a series of spells come flying in Harry’s direction. He casts a strong shield and retaliates with a couple of spells of his own, remembering the realization which had caused him to pause and miss a beat earlier. If Blackwater favours one of his legs, it means he can’t move quickly, so he’s dependent on his defence spells. The duel starts again, but this time, Harry keeps moving about, attacking from different angles, forcing Blackwater to waste time on defence spells and thus pressuring him back.

He sees anger flash in Blackwater’s eyes just before he lifts his wand in a sweeping motion. Harry gets a flash of Voldemort poised to strike, and all thought evaporates. He throws himself down and rolls on the ground, absorbing the shock, before pointing his own wand. His yelled _Stupefy_ doesn’t hit target, but he wasn’t expecting it to. Instead, he follows it up with a non-verbal _Petrificus Totalus_. The spell hits Blackwater with more force than Harry planned for, and he’s sent sprawling to the ground several meters away.

There’s almost an entire minute of silence as the students just stare. Harry can feel the blood beating at his temples. Eventually Parvati and Lavender get up from their chairs and go to their teacher. They Levitate him away, saying something about the infirmary. Harry isn’t listening. He’s trying to calm his heartbeat down, to abate the sudden adrenaline gripping his muscles.

There’s a hand on his arm, a soft voice in his ear.

“Breathe, Harry. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”

Harry nods with difficulty, thankful for Hermione’s reassuring words, but when he raises her head, he finds himself looking past her. And instead he locks his eyes on Malfoy’s unreadable grey ones.


	4. burn

**CHAPTER 4**

_“boys like us have a bloody history. maybe we are meant to bleed. maybe we are meant to burn” - Texts between Apollo and Icarus, R.M._

 

Draco is lying on his back on what he now calls his second bed, aka the window sill of the common room. He’s lying there and thinking to himself that it just. Doesn’t make sense. It’s been three days since that disastrous practical demonstration in Defence, and it still doesn’t make sense. No one casts a wandless, non-verbal spell like that, like it costs no effort, and then proceeds to win a duel against a trained Auror. One of the best, if Brown’s excited whispers are to be believed.

And yet Potter did it, and easily at that, his power such a wild, impressive thing and just. Draco couldn’t shake off the image in his head for hours afterwards, even after taking care of, uh, any physical reactions to it he may or may not have had. It still haunts him now, that fiery light in his green eyes and the determined set to his jaw, reminding him of when Potter saved him from Fiendfyre and then took on the Dark Lord like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

But the way he was so intent, so focused and intense, it also brings back some much more recent memories… Memories that he should not under any circumstance dwell on again, Draco sharply reminds himself, because it wasn’t that special, and besides it will never happen again, because he doesn’t want it to, and even if he did, it’s not like Potter would ever want to do it again, because it was probably just– anyway, Draco doesn’t think about it.

Yet he can’t stop, not _really_ , because he still can’t believe it. He still can’t believe himself, and sometimes it makes him wanna throw up. How can he want the person who destroyed his world? How can he want the person who put his father in Azkaban? How can he want the person he has loathed his entire life and who won’t stop saving him? Who won’t let him hang on to his last shreds of dignity. How can he give yet another victory to the boy who hasn’t ever stopped winning?

The bitter resentment and self-hate settles at his throat, where it’s made its home the past few days, burning raw. The voice of his father echoes in his head and he feels itchy all over, like he wants to scratch all himself and get rid of this skin, get rid of this body, that _fucking_ scar.

Draco is thankfully distracted from his thoughts by Granger walking down the stairs to the common room. She comes every night like clockwork, staying from around 2am to 5am before going back to her dorm again. She knows he’s here, she’s even nodded at him in acknowledgement once or twice, but they never speak. They simply co-exist in silence, a silent understanding and respect of each other’s sleeplessness. She’s not mentioned anything to Potter either, even when he joins her in front of the fireplace, which he does ever so often.

He meets Granger’s eyes briefly, and she gives a small nod before sitting in her favoured armchair. Draco is unsure of whether she holds him responsible for what happened at his Manor, whether she still hates him. He knows he would. After all, he still hates Potter.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco watches in disbelief as the Hufflepuff girl prattles on about the Muggle Studies homework, obviously happy to share her knowledge about the utility of refregi-somethings.

“And if the food needs even more cold, then they use something else, wait,” she looks down at her notes.

Draco still doesn’t understand why she’s decided to use him as her study partner considering that 1) he’s possibly the worst student in Muggle Studies, 2) he’s a former Death Eater, and 3) his family had a hand in the death of her Muggleborn grand-father. He feels like that last point is important.

But Angela Runcorn just chats on happily, occasionally looking down at her notes or asking Draco a question, which he is of course in no capacity to answer.

“Do you remember what it was called?”

He shrugs.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Muggles use a machine to freeze products?”

“Yes Draco! You’re a genius! A freezer!”

Draco stares. Not only did she call him a Muggle Studies genius, but she called him ‘Draco’. He casts a desperate glance around the room. Where is Pansy when he needs her? Sadly, his friend is occupied talking with Millicent, and Draco is alone with the unbearably cheerful girl. She speaks of temperatures and dates of invention for a bit more before suddenly snapping to attention, curls bouncing around her head.

Draco follows her gaze to see Granger, Weasley and Potter enter the room. Granger and Weasley are softly bickering while Potter has a slight smile at his lips as he guides them inside. The second they walked in, all the students cleared their favourite armchairs, but it seems the so-called Golden Trio (nickname courtesy of the Daily Prophet) doesn’t even notice. Like they find it completely normal that the best seats are always available whenever they come in. Typical, Draco thinks with scorn.

Potter and Weasley are setting up a chess board while Granger looks on in amusement, settling on her chair with yet another book on her lap. Draco can’t help but notice the softness in Potter’s eyes as he watches his friends, such a stark contrast to the unforgiving way they usually burn.

“They’re so sweet together,” Runcorn remarks, looking at Granger and Weasley who have forgone arguing in favour of smiling at each other dopily.

Draco allows himself a couple of seconds of horror at the ends to which he’s reduced, before taking a deep breath.

“So, about the difference between microwaves and ovens?”

Thankfully Rancorn’s eyes light up and she delves back into her notes, and Draco can finally focus on something else than the way Potter’s messy, insufferable dark hair curls around his neck and his temples and gets into his glasses and– microwaves. Right.

However, their studying only lasts a couple of minutes before something else interrupts them. This time, it’s the Weasley girl, slamming open the door to the common room and running towards her three friends. Potter looks up and a brilliant smile spreads over his face.

“Oh no, the Weaslette.”

It takes Draco a full second to realize that it isn’t him who said the words. Next to him, Runcorn is grimacing. She notices his gaze and shrugs.

“She’s so proud and loud and…” she trails off, tilting her chin to where Potter is chatting animatedly with the fiery haired girl, shaking his head – his messy, inky strands fly in all directions – and laughing.

“Unnecessary,” Draco finishes in a softly savage voice.

Runcorn sends him a disbelieving glance before giggling.

“Well, that too.”

Sometime later, when Runcorn has left to talk to her friends or braid someone’s hair or Merlin knows what she does in their spare time, Pansy sits down next to him.

“Sorry I didn’t join you earlier but I saw you with Runcorn… I share my dorm with her and ugh,” Pansy visibly shudders. “She’s such a Hufflepuff.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco smiles slyly. “She’s not that bad.”        

Pansy gives him a strange look.

“Anyway, party next Friday. Some of the boys have been living it up for a couple of weeks in the dorms. And now Weasley invited Granger, who invited Millicent and that Sue Li girl from her room, who invited her Ravenclaw friends Lisa Turpin and Mandy Brocklehurst from my dorm, who invited me, and now I’m inviting you.”

Draco lets that sink in for a bit.

“I thought you weren’t friends with the Ravenclaw girls.”

“I’m friends with whoever invites me to parties, Draco.”

“And you expect me to go to a party filled with _our beloved heroes_ and come out unscathed?”

Pansy raises an eyebrow.

“You underestimate the powers of alcohol…” She has a mischievous look in her eyes as she adds. “Remember fifth year, Blaise’s party? He bought the bottles from Goldstein. And Goldstein is hosting.”

And well, then, there’s really nothing to add to the discussion.

They head to dinner earlier than usual because both have their nightly rounds to go to. Draco gives his usual complaints about the quality of the food – better than during 7th year, where most of the elves were living in fear – but still nowhere near worthy of the Malfoy Manor feasts. Not that he’s ever likely to experience that again, he thinks wryly. Considering the public opinion of his family, the money spent on war reparations and, obviously, the fact that his dad is in Azkaban.

The rest of the meal is spent half listening to Pansy and Millicent’s bickering, and trying not to look at the Gryffindor table. That’s the only reason Draco can find that he doesn’t realize he’s being followed the second he leaves the Great Hall. As it is, it takes him over five minutes before he hears the other sets of footsteps behind him.

The instant he notices, he heaves a sigh, breaking his stride. Spares a moment to steel himself before turning around.

“Yes?”

The three Gryffindor girls – sixth years? – look momentarily startled at his careless tone, before one of them plucks up her legendary feline courage.

“Malfoy,” she spits his name, and he wonders if he ever sounded so ridiculous when he did the same to Potter in his younger years. Probably not, though. He’s always been something of an outstanding performer, especially in the arts of insulting people.

“You disgusting piece of shit. My brother was at your trial, he told me how you weaselled yourself out of a sentence, just like the Malfoys have always done. All you Death Eaters should have been given the Kiss.”

With no further warning, she jumps and grabs his left arm. He cries out in outrage, but already the two other girls have sprung into action, the blonde shoving him against the corridor wall and the other kicking his shin. Draco slips and crashes into one if those grotesque armours, and both fall to the ground in a great clang. A metal piece of something is digging into his thigh, but he doesn’t have time to worry about it because the first girl is taking hold of his arm again. She pulls up his sleeve and sneers at the Mark.

“This. This proves you should be locked up like your murderous father. Or better yet, dead.”

She grabs her wand and points it at the ugly skull, and Draco can feel the echo of the torture it was last time someone touched it. He gasps and tries to move away, but the brunette kicks him at the same spot. He is desperate to retaliate, to fight his way out of this, but he knows that he can’t, so he just lets out a frustrated growl as his leg gives out under him again.

There’s a clatter of footsteps down the corridor, and the girls’ grip on him loosen suddenly. A voice harsh like whipcord calls out a spell and they're thrown several meters away from him.

“Leave,” Potter grits out from between his teeth, and the girls quite literally run away.

Draco pulls down his left sleeve.

“I was wondering when _you_ ’d show up,” he rolls his eyes.

“I saw them follow you, so I went after to check what they’d do. Are you okay?”

Draco scoffs, thinking of the bruises Potter left him with last time they spoke to each other. Then he forcefully squashes the memory before he does something stupid like want Potter again.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he says even as he wipes away the blood from his chin. A simple _Episkey_ will do, but he can feel her fingers around the Mark and he can’t wait to be back in the common room to lick his wounds. “Now would you mind leaving me alone for once in your life. Go amuse yourself with the weasel girl or something.”

He can feel the lack of bite in his words, like the tiredness has seeped into his bones and dissolved his snark, and he racks his mind, desperate for a better angle that will make Potter get out of there fast.

“She looked quite desperate earlier. But I guess it must get tiring, having a ginger pant after you all these years. I don’t blame you for seeking refuge here.”

Potter’s eyes flash with anger, and Draco feels an indefinable thrill run through him.

“You don’t know the first thing about Ginny. You’re not worth a sodding tenth of her. So how about you shut your filthy mouth about her.”

“Here we go,” Draco says with a terrible glee, “ _now_ I’m filthy. Go on, what else can you say? Other things you wanna throw at me and then pretend you didn’t mean when you’re back to being Saint Potter with all your friends?”

It’s addictive, watching Potter lose his temper like this. Knowing that he might deem himself so much higher than Draco, yet he’s so easily affected by him. Potter makes a grab for Draco’s – he doesn’t even know, because his arm shoots out to block Potter’s. Potter throws his shoulder into Draco’s chest, and his leg immediately gives out and sends him to fall back against the wall once again. He braces himself, but the blow doesn’t come. Potter is looking at Draco’s thigh, at the patch of darker colour growing on his pants where blood is seeping through.

“Why don’t you fight back?” He asks, then clarifies. “When they corner you, and do things like this, why don’t you fight back?”

Draco raises his eyebrows through the pain, determined to hold onto his pride, by the teeth if necessary.

“I can’t. I’d be expelled immediately and sent to Azkaban for not fulfilling my sentence.”

“But you fight against me, though?”

“That’s different. I hate you.”

And Draco is ready. He’s ready for Potter spitting that he hates him too, he’s ready for Potter lashing out in a new slew of insults, he’s ready for Potter hitting him. He’s even ready for Potter simply turning on his heels and leaving.

What he is not ready for, however, is Potter pouncing on him like a fucking animal. The air is punched out of him as Potter’s entire weight holds him up against the wall, and a soft, surprised sound escapes him. A sound that turns into something that is suspiciously like a moan when Potter’s lips attach themselves to the sensitive skin at his neck.

“You’re such a little shit,” Potter whispers, and Draco shivers, another moan clawing at his throat.

Annoyed at his own reaction, he shoves Potter away. He falls back a couple of steps, green eyes a bit hazy. His hair is somehow an even bigger mess than usual after running down the corridor after him.

“What are you, a vampire?” Draco sneers in a valiant attempt to regain some countenance. “Do you know how long it took me to glamour them all away last time?”

“I really like your throat,” Potter says in a low voice and it should be creepy but it isn’t, it’s really fucking hot, and Draco swallows hard.

“Oh,” he says, and his voice wavers.

But then Potter presses his hips into Draco’s and every thought slips away as white hot desire rushes through his veins. They’re both already halfway there, and it only takes a couple of thrusts before they’re fully hard. Potter attacks Draco’s neck again, and he can’t hold back the noises that the mixed pain and pleasure draw from him. He grinds his hips into Potter in quick, helpless movements, and Potter lets out a low groan from the friction, pushing back harder against him, and Draco can barely see past the need to get off.

Potter takes a step back – Draco most definitely doesn’t whine at the loss – and for a second Draco can’t breathe. He looks a mess the way Draco has never seen him before, the green of his eyes only a sliver of colour around wide, dark pupils, his lips red from drawing bruises on Draco’s skin, and his hair – everywhere, a sweaty mass plastering to his forehead and cheeks and fuck– Draco hates it.

He leans up and grabs hold of it, only sparing a moment to wonder at its curly silkiness, before pulling Potter back into him. He’s never been this aroused in his entire life. Potter’s hand finds its way underneath Draco’s robes, underneath his pants and before he knows it, there’s a tight hold around his dick. The back of his head thuds against the wall.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he breathes, and Potter spits in his hand before gripping him again, firmer.

Draco’s eyes are wide and fixed somewhere over Potter’s shoulder as Potter jerks him off in long, hard strokes. He feels like someone injected pure hot pleasure down in his bones and his hands grip Potter’s hair painfully hard, desperately searching for something to hold on to as he falls apart at the seams. And the fact that it’s the bloody Saviour undoing him like this is almost too much, and he’s so close, so fucking close.

Then comes the sudden realization that it’s only _him_ on the edge of coming, and that’s just _not_ on, so he lets go of Potter’s hair with one hand and reaches blindly for Potter’s own erection. It’s hot and hard against his hand, and Potter gasps the instant Draco touches him.

A single clench through the rough material of his trousers and Potter sags into him, putting weight on Draco’s injured thigh. It _hurts_ , so Draco momentarily digs his fingernails into Potter’s dick in retaliation. Potter cries out, but his indignant protest is quickly silenced when Draco reaches into his trousers and runs his fist up and down the skin directly.

It feels like a catastrophe, the way they’re both panting, fumbling with each other’s cocks in a confused mess of limbs and hazy pleasure and _almost, almost there_ , but it’s too good and Draco is way past caring.

It’s only a few moments later that Draco’s orgasm crashes into him, almost violently, and he lets out a drawn-out moan at the all-consuming feeling. Potter comes directly after, with a half-curse, half-moan, before he falls into Draco again.

Draco takes quick, shallow breaths, his mind slowly clearing. It takes about half a minute for him to realize that they’re both sticky and disgusting and that that’s _Potter_ leaning against him. He pushes through his post-orgasm lethargic bliss and shakes Potter’s shoulder, roughly. Potter hums distractedly before the situation crashes onto him too. He stares a little wide-eyed at Draco; and it’s déjà vu, the way he frowns and hesitates a little before opting for silence and finally leaving the corridor.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes longer than usual to clean himself that night, locked away in his dorm’s bathroom. It’s not late enough that his roommates are asleep yet, but by now they’re used to Draco not going to bed before the small hours of the morning.

He did his best with the injury of his thigh, but he suspects he’ll have a limp for the next few days, which is gonna be hard to explain to Pansy. So far, he has been able to avoid the topic of his physical bullying, and he’d like that to continue.

The other cuts from his encounter with the three girls are easier to heal, and it’s the bruises that get his attention. The ones that colour the entire side of his neck, staining his usually so pale skin in reds and purples. _Not that washed out looking now, am I_ , _Aunt Bella_ , he thinks wryly. Unfortunately, that leads him straight to another line of thought, and he wonders what Lucius Malfoy would say if he knew what his son had got up to with the enemy of his dear Dark Lord. He barely holds in a physical shudder.

_You must visit him, Draco dear. I know it may be difficult, but he has been asking for you, and I think it would do you both a lot of good._

Draco goes to the shower and scrubs every inch of himself clean, until his skin is pink and feels raw.

 

* * *

 

 

Next to Draco, Longbottom is rapt with attention as Blackwater finishes his speech on the different kinds of shields and their attributes. Draco’s own attention is divided between the back of Potter’s head and the pens on his desk, which he realigns ever so often, gaining himself curious looks from a Ravenclaw seventh year at the next table over. She looks a bit worried for him, actually, which is unnerving enough to explain why he spends _most_ of the time staring at Potter.

When comes the practical part of the lesson, Longbottom leaves his side to partner with the Weasley girl, and Draco is reminded that while Longbottom has made an effort to be agreeable with Draco, he still has terrible taste in friends. To Draco’s surprise, he’s not left alone for once, as Runcorn, his Muggle Studies ‘study partner’, pairs up with him with a brilliant smile.

“Hello Draco,” she says in a tone entirely too brightly for how early in the morning it is (no decent person can muster up a smile before lunch). “I hope you’re good at defence spells because I’m sort of rubbish.”

“I’ve had some experience with them yes.”

Her eyes flit to his left arm and her smile wavers for a second before she makes a visible effort and continues.

“Well, then you can help me!”

And so Draco spends the next ten minutes helping Runcorn with her shields, all the while fighting to keep at bay the memories of how he desperately learned the spells and their defects during the years Malfoy Manor was used as headquarters.

Eventually Blackwater calls everyone to attention again.

“Potter, come forward. A week ago, you quite convincingly showed us the drawbacks of relying too much on defence spells,” he says, sounding genuine and not reproachful at all.

Surprising, considering he’s been slammed into a wall in front of his students. Draco would have been embarrassed, at the very least. Instead he entreats Potter to help the groups in finding the right balance between defence and offence as they duel. Which is quite frustrating, considering Draco has just managed not to look at him for an entire fifteen minutes.

But now he commands attention, with the soft authority with which he corrects students’ postures and gives pieces of advice like he’s always been born to be a professor of Defence against the Dark Arts. Except he was born to kill or be killed by the Dark Lord, and isn’t that a sobering thought?

Draco shakes his head slightly and concentrates back on Runcorn, with whom he exchanges some spells, but it’s all a bit light-hearted as she seems as distracted as him. When Potter passes by them, Draco takes care not to betray a single reaction as he deflects a couple of Runcorn’s enthusiastic jinxes. Potter hovers behind him, and he feels hyper aware of him, his muscles trembling with tension at the proximity of the boy who was his enemy for so long. Eventually, Runcorn makes a mistake and Draco sends her in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

Potter murmurs the counter spell and after a wave of his wand, Runcorn is standing on two feet again, her cheeks a little red.

“Steady there, Angela,” he says, and her blush deepens. “Can you tell what you did wrong?”

Draco doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something about the way Potter holds himself when he explains Runcorn’s error to her, something about how every student almost subconsciously stops what they’re doing to listen to him, something about this casual power he possesses…it turns him the fuck on. (But then again isn’t it typical of a dirty Slytherin to be fascinated by power?) When Potter turns back around to meet Draco’s stare with a challenging look, a now familiar heat rushes through him.

“And you, want any advice on your techniques?”

It’s probably meant as an insult, but Draco doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Why, do you think there’s anything you could teach me?” He answers instead, and there’s just enough innuendo in his voice for Potter’s eyes to widen.

“I can think of a few things, actually,” he says, a slow smirk pulling at his lips.

 “Well go on then,” Draco goads. “Show me what the Chosen One is made of.”

“Some other time maybe,” Potter says, and there’s a dark promise in his eyes.

The rest of the class is torture. Draco is uncomfortably hard, he has an attention span of about half a minute, and his mind keeps re-playing Potter’s words over and over, as well as remembering some choice things from their past trysts. The second the class is over, Draco sends Potter a meaningful look before gathering his stuff and leaving. He hears Potter give a half-assed excuse to his friends, but he can’t bring himself to care about anything other than the footsteps behind him, about Potter following him to some abandoned classroom.

The door bangs shut behind them, and Draco pushes Potter against a table roughly and pulls down his pants. He’s all too aware that this is the first time he’s initiating this, the first time that this is happening without a proper argument, and he doesn’t leave any room for thought.

Potter lets out a gasp when Draco falls to his knees in front of him, and he’s already out of breath by the time Draco gets a good grip on his cock. It’s fully hard, flushed and already leaking a bit of precome. Nothing would please Draco more than to be able to say to the world that Potter has a small dick, but the truth is that he has no idea of how true that is because, contrary to what Pansy seems to think, he makes no habit of looking at other boys’ naked bodies. In fact, Draco has no idea what he’s doing _at all_. But he _wants_ , Merlin he wants.

He starts by pumping his hand up and down the way he did last time, twisting his wrist the slightest bit on the uptake the way that he enjoys himself. It’s apparently a good move, because Potter lets out a low sound and his hands dig into the wooden table. Spurred on, Draco tentatively takes Potter into his mouth. The reaction is instantaneous; Potter’s hands fly to his hair and he bucks into Draco’s mouth, causing him to half-choke.

“What the fuck,” Draco cries, breaking the silence for the first time. “Don’t do that, you motherless prick!”

He places an arm over Potter’s thighs to prevent any future choking and lowers his mouth back onto his dick, effectively shutting out any possible replies. Draco works his mouth up and down the shaft, taking cues from Potter’s groans and gasps. He pays special attention to the vein on the underside, and when he rubs his tongue against the slit, Potter lets out a loud groan, his hands twisting in Draco’s hair. The sensation is disturbingly pleasant and he hums around Potter’s dick, who trembles and lets out a rough moan. It’s the first time he hears Potter moan and the sound is like lightning down his spine. Draco re-doubles his efforts until Potter’s fingers tangle into his hair and his thighs spasm as he comes.

The liquid is salty and disgusting, and it serves as a jarring wake-up call to Draco, who spits it out. He can’t believe he’s here again, on his knees for the Saviour of the sodding world, cheeks burning in embarrassment and uncomfortably hard in his trousers.

He stands up, unable to even look at Potter, who’s probably still drowsy with his post-orgasm bliss, and isn’t that horrible, that he knows what Potter is like after coming? Potter’s clothes are scattered on the ground, there’s mixed saliva and come on the table, and the shame, always the same burning shame in Draco’s chest. He turns on his heels and hurries away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh sorry i took so long! exams are kicking my ass


	5. lovers

**CHAPTER 5**

_“Don’t talk about us,_

_All the lovers,_

_How we kissed and killed each other.” - Sober II, Lorde_

 

Harry has felt a lot of shitty things in his life. He has felt misunderstood, rejected, useless, hated, lost…he has never felt cheap before. But there’s something about being left alone in an abandoned classroom, trousers down, come splattered on the table, and still reeling from the most intense orgasm of your life, that can’t be described as anything but cheap.

It tastes sour in his mouth. Slowly he stands up on shaking legs and dresses before cleaning the mess with an _Evanesco_. How perfectly ironic that he should be made to feel this way by Draco Malfoy, the git who’s been out to hurt him since they were kids, and who Harry only recently ‘won’ over?

Instead of going back to classes – no way he could concentrate now – or to the common room, where Malfoy probably ran off to, he leaves the castle and walks down the familiar path across the grounds towards Hagrid’s hut. It’s empty now, but the sight still fills Harry with warmth. He received a letter from his old-time friend only a couple of days ago, and it seems he’s really enjoying himself in France.

Harry’s eyes flit further away, past the hut to the Dark Forest, where he once many months ago went to die. An idea forms. The forest isn’t only filled with bad memories, and he’s left a couple of friends there, friends that Luna is always insisting that he visit. He walks into it, taking care not to use the same way he did back then. He doesn’t want to risk stumbling across the resurrection stone.

Harry only has to whistle, and within a minute there’s a sound of heavy beating wings. The skeletal horses land in a soft thump, and the moment they catch sight of Harry, they trot over. The thestrals look a little disappointed that Harry didn’t bring any fresh meat with him the way that Hagrid used to, but one of them approaches Harry further. He hesitates a split-second before patting its neck. The thestral nibbles on his sleeve, and he smiles, recognition and a surprising amount of affection rushing through him.

“Hey Hannibal, hey girl,” Harry finds himself crooning.

He sounds disturbingly like Hermione when she’s petting Crookshanks, and he’s currently talking to a possibly female skeletal leathery horse that he can only see because he’s had a spectacularly shitty life, but he’s still feeling sick from earlier, so he allows himself a moment of weakness. He stays some time with the thestral, and strangely enough, just petting it makes him feel better. It reminds him a little of Buckbeak, of the afternoons spent at Grimmauld Place with Sirius and his best friends. Buckbeak followed Hagrid to France, and with Hedwig gone, it’s been a while since Harry has been able to enjoy the quiet reassurance of animal company. Hannibal munches on his sleeve again, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“I’ll bring you something to eat next time,” he promises.

He stays over an hour with her, until the sky starts to darken and he knows he should go back to the castle if he doesn’t want Ron and Hermione to get too worried. Feeling more stable, Harry makes his way back and gets to the Great Hall just in time for dinner.

Thankfully everyone is too excited about tomorrow night’s party, which is “going to be huge, with people from literally every House, we’ll have to hold it in the common room”, to ask questions about his disappearance.

 

* * *

 

 

For once, when Harry wakes up in the middle of the night, he doesn’t know what he dreamt of. There’s only a vague sense of anguish and a restless feeling in his veins. He sits up in the bed, absentmindedly rubbing the tattoo at his ribcage, the one of a delicate lily. He runs a hand through his hair – a difficult feat considering how tangled it is – and decides to just go along with what he usually does and join Hermione downstairs.

This time, he’s not still under the influence of his dream, and he’s more aware than ever of the absolute silence of Hogwarts at night. There’s the familiar creaking of the stairs, the familiar fire crackling in the chimney, the familiar bushy hair of Hermione over the armchair…he smiles and turns his head to watch the stars outside the common room – and then there’s the totally unfamiliar figure of Draco Malfoy sleeping on the windowsill. Harry comes to a standstill.

“How long has he been here?”

The words come tumbling out of his mouth, eyes fixed on Malfoy who looks so small and harmless lying there, curled around himself.

“What do you mean? He’s always here.”

Harry turns to Hermione, who’s looking at him quizzically, head popping from the side of her armchair.

“He’s. What?”

She shrugs as he makes his way to her and gingerly sits on his own favourite chair. He can’t see Malfoy from there at all.

“Since the beginning of the year, he’s always sitting there at the window when I come down. Never says a word. He doesn’t usually fall asleep, though.”

Harry blinks.

“I never noticed. Can’t see him from here.”

He turns, peeks around the chair.

“Do you guys talk? I’m pretty surprised you don’t mind him there, with what happened at Malfoy Manor and everything.”

“Harry. You should know by now I don’t blame Malfoy for what happened during the war. In fact, I believe that the war wouldn’t have even happened in the first place if Hogwarts didn’t have such a terrible attitude towards Slytherins in the first place. I mean they’re not all wonderful beings, but I don’t know why we villainize Salazar Slytherin so much.”

She ignores Harry’s whisper of ‘a _basilisk_ in the castle, Hermione’ and ploughs on.

“If we didn’t have such a prejudice towards them, they wouldn’t ‘turn bad’. Millicent for example, we weren’t very keen on her before, but sharing a dorm is actually nice. She has a lot of advice about Crookshanks. I invited her to the party you know, that’s why Slytherins will be joining us. And anyway,” she adds, frowning a little, “I wouldn’t think this is a problem for you. Didn’t you testify for Malfoy at his trial? And don’t think I don’t know you’ve been defending him when he gets bullied. There’s rumours all over the school.”

“He hates me for it,” Harry says contemplatively. “It’s like he’s angry at me for testifying for him, but also mad at me for not helping him more. He hates me and I just. You know, after the war and everything, I don’t have it in myself to hate him anymore. And I think he’s angry at me for not hating him.”

Hermione stops and looks at him in a way that makes him feel like she sees straight through his soul.

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Harry prays guilt isn’t showing on his face – no, he’s not exactly ashamed of what happened with Malfoy but he doesn’t want to advertise it either, not even to his friends – and smirks a little.

“Well, with Voldemort gone, I have to find something else to obsess over.”

She snorts.

“Oh Harry, you’ve _always_ been obsessed with Malfoy.”

He’s about to argue when certain choice moments of sixth year come to mind, and he stays silent. Instead he stands up from his armchair, leaving Hermione to her reading, and sits on a sofa a bit closer to Malfoy. Hermione didn’t really come with an answer to his questions, but it’s good to talk to someone about Malfoy, even if it’s just about part of the problem.

See, Harry has come to terms with the fact that he’s bisexual. It’s something that not having an egomaniacal criminal chasing after him anymore has allowed him to realize pretty quickly. But he wouldn’t say that he’s always been attracted to Malfoy. Yes, his school life has revolved around the git a lot, but he wasn’t mooning over how attractive Malfoy was before. _Not_ that he’s mooning _now_ or anything. He’s far from the most handsome man Harry has ever seen. Merlin, he’s not even that handsome in the common way.

He’s all angles, with his pointy chin and his sharp cheekbones and too thin body, and it makes him look a little dangerous. Like you could cut yourself on his edges. Even now, curled up on the windowsill like a cat, he doesn’t seem approachable at all. But his mouth. His mouth looks soft. When Malfoy is awake, it’s always twisting and sneering and spitting out the worst insults, but in his sleep, you can see just how full his lower lip is, plump and soft pink stark against the pallor of his skin. And Harry knows how wonderful it feels first hand, reddened and slick with spit.

It’s entrancing, to think that this seemingly unreachable figure, all fancy clothes and aristocratic features, was on his knees for Harry just some hours ago. How the pristine hair was a mess, the perfect, untouched skin of his throat was covered in hickeys and the cold eyes were shining with lust.

Harry realizes with a jolt that he’s watching Malfoy sleep like a complete creep, and also that he’s half hard in his pyjamas. He turns his head to see that Hermione is staring at him wonderingly. Has been for who knows how long.

Fighting back a blush, he makes up an excuse and hurries back up to the dormitories.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, only four people don’t show up to the party. Apparently, Ron inviting Hermione along lead to Hermione inviting her roommates who invited the other Ravenclaw girls, and Padma invited her sister, who invited Lavender and her Hufflepuff roommate, who got every other Hufflepuff to join in. Someone must have invited Parkinson too, because she’s sitting next to a Ravenclaw girl with an extremely uncomfortable-looking Malfoy at her other side.

What used to be the Gryffindor boys plus Anthony and Ernie has turned into a complete 8th year hangout. Only Nott, two Ravenclaw boys and Sophie Roper, the elusive Gryffindor that Harry barely remembers ever seeing in class, are missing. It’s a little overwhelming.

Also, Luna is there for some reason.

“Whatever happens,” Harry says under his breath to a shocked Ron, “this is on you.”

It takes some time for all the students arrange themselves in a circle. There aren’t enough seats for everyone, so some sit on Conjured cushions or directly on the floor. Thankfully Anthony foresaw a little of how crazy the turn out would be because he brought _a lot_ of alcohol. Once everyone is sitting comfortably and the glasses of alcohol have been passed around, there’s an air of expectancy in the room.

Eventually, one of the Ravenclaw girls (Mandy Brocklehurst?) speaks up.

“So, what do we do?”

“Uh…usually we just drink?” Dean says cautiously.

“Ugh, boys,” Lavender rolls her eyes. “We’re supposed to play games, yeah?”

They start out by a Truth-or-Dare, which is fine, really. Harry gets deliciously tipsy as he keeps his eyes on the people getting dared and far away from the sullen form of Malfoy at Parkinson’s side. Seamus gets dared to sing the English national anthem – which he loathes every second of due to his Irish pride –, Parvati has to show her belly-dance skills, Justin Finch-Fletchey downs three shots of Firewhiskey and Roger Malone runs up and down the corridor outside the common room shirtless. There are truths as well, the answers to which a spell courtesy of Hermione makes sure are honest. Neville admits that his worst fear is still Snape, Ernie MacMillan says that he’s always found Professor Sprout strangely attractive, and Hermione – to Ron’s utter horror – gives details about her short-lived romance with Viktor Krum.

When it’s her turn to ask someone, she frowns in thought.

“I’ve always wondered about this but, Padma, has there ever been a moment when you couldn’t answer a question to enter Ravenclaw Tower?”

There’s a general laugh from all the Ravenclaws, apart from Luna who’s inspecting her toenails (they’re painted yellow, Harry notices).

“Honestly, it happens all the time. In first year, I often thought I’d have to sleep outside the Tower.”

“I did once,” Anthony Goldstein grins. “We got a table from the Great Hall and transfigured it into a tent. Fun times.”

“Oh!” Lisa Turpin and Mandy Brocklehurst exclaim at the same time.

“Was that the night–”

“Yep.”

“ _Oh yeah_.”

There’s a silence. No one thinks it wise to ask what exactly happened in that tent.

“Which riddle was that?” Padma wonders.

“Where do dreams really come true?” Anthony answers, and from the light in his eyes as he remembers, you’d think he found out that it happens in tents right outside the Ravenclaw Tower.

Hermione frowns, racking her brain for an answer. After a minute, obviously coming up empty, she half closes her eyes in a goodbye to her dignity, and asks.

“What was the answer?”

Sue Li speaks up for the first time, a smile playing on her face.

“I said ‘over the rainbow’.”

Most of the people get the reference and laugh, then spot the confusion on the pure bloods’ faces and laugh some more. Even Millicent Bulstrode is chuckling next to Hermione, and Harry sees Parkinson shooting her a wounded look. Seamus starts singing the song to the general hilarity, and Malfoy–

Harry locks eyes with Malfoy for the first time since he was left alone in the classroom, pants around his ankles. He swallows against the strange taste in his mouth and looks away, finishing his drink in one gulp.

Everyone is more relaxed after that, and House differences are all but forgotten as the alcohol is passed around again.

“Okay, my turn!” Padma exclaims, a smirk at her lips. “Time to heat things up a little, no?”

“Ah, a girl after my own heart,” Seamus grins.

“Mandy, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Speaking of dreams, have you ever had a dirty dream about someone in the room?”

Mandy blushes profusely.

“Never mind, I choose dare.”

“Fine,” Padma rolls her eyes. “I dare you to kiss the person who you had a dirty dream about.”

“Truly a blessing,” Seamus whispers.

Mandy stands up in the general anticipation and, to Harry’s utter horror, makes her way to him. Seeing his expression, she blushes further.

“I was fourteen okay! I was just star-struck because of the Tournament.”

Harry nods, a little dizzy. He’d like to say that he’s never been a ‘star’ and he never thought himself as superior to anyone but he’s never really noticed her existence until tonight, so. She sits next to him and gives him a small peck on the lips.

“That’s not a kiss!” Padma hollers. “Do it like you mean it!”

Harry hates Padma. Seamus clutches at his heart.

“I’m in love.”

“Seamus, you’re gay,” Dean reminds him.

“Oh yes! I love dick! Thanks you Dean babe, what would I do without you?” He cries out. “Imagine if I lived my life without taking it up in the ass ever again!”

There’s an ‘oof’ and Harry guesses that Seamus has launched himself onto Dean the way he tends to doe whenever he’s had more than one glass, but he can’t really tell because he’s currently got a mouthful of tongue. He kisses Mandy back distractedly, wondering if she had a crush on him in fourth year because Rita Skeeter wrote lies about how he cried about his parents’ death.

When she’s back at her place, he drinks more Fireball, enjoying the way it burns down his throat. Meanwhile, Parkinson chooses dare and gives a lap dance to some guy, Harry is getting fuzzy on the details. He’s leaning a bit heavily on Ron, who is taking care of Hermione, who is a little spaced out because she still can’t hold her liquor. Harry shares some more shots with Anthony (“the real original first number one party crew _deserves_ more alcohol”).

Parkinson sits back in her place with a self-satisfied smile on her face. Next to her, Malfoy looks a fair bit scandalized.

“Draco darling, truth or dare?”

He sniffs, opens his mouth, but then his eyes catch Harry’s and he obviously changes his mind.

“Dare.”

“I dare you to strip the way you did in fifth year,” Parkinson says immediately.

“Oooh,” Millicent say. “Blaise is gonna be so sad he missed this.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Malfoy huffs.

“Draco,” Pansy deadpans, “you took off your clothes and lip-synched to A Cauldron Full of Love.”

“You only kept the Slytherin tie on,” Millicent says.

“And you licked it.”

“You were twisting around the Salazar Slytherin statue like it was a damn dance pole.”

“You used _Serpentsortia_ to play with a snake around your shoulders.”

“It twisted around your thighs.”

“You _thrusted your hips_ around with it.”

There’s a silence.

“Yeah, I wanna see this,” Seamus says.

Harry would love to agree but all his blood has left his head and is located at, uh, another, more southern part of his body, so he settles for staring at Malfoy. Malfoy who is dealing pretty well with everyone’s stare, as he sniffs again and simply shrugs.

“Well at least I was very good at it.”

“Not to ruin everyone’s good time or anything,” Ron speaks up, his voice slightly trembling, “but I don’t think I’m ready to see this.”

Harry has never felt more betrayed by his friend. Malfoy has never looked more grateful, and appropriately horrified that he’s reduced to the extreme of being grateful to a Weasley. Parkinson sighs like someone robbed her of all her fun. Harry decides here and there that he _likes_ this girl.

“Fine, I guess you can just make out with someone then.”

Never mind, he takes it back.

“Go kiss Potter.”

Nope, he definitely loves her.

There’s an excited hush around the room before Malfoy stands up – he would never turn a dare down, would he – and makes his way to where Harry is sitting. Up close, Harry can see how wide the pupils are, dilated with alcohol and want, and there’s a delicate pink flush to his cheekbones and his eyelashes are so pale and fine, and his mouth is pouty and pink and– and Harry should really calm down because everyone is looking and they can’t know, but then Malfoy is kissing him and nothing matters.

It’s not soft at all, it’s needy and passionate, and Harry loves it. He kisses him back immediately, licking at Malfoy’s mouth and swallowing the inevitable moan, and Malfoy opens his mouth and it’s heaven. He tastes like the fiery alcohol they’ve been drinking, and Harry realizes with a shock that this is the first time they’ve actually kissed.

He lets out a choked off sound and forcefully pulls Malfoy closer. It’s harsh and rough, like they want to hurt each other, lips crashing together, and it feeds right into Harry’s need, because how _dare_ that git leave him alone yesterday? How dare he sit there and look so bloody cold and gorgeous, and _Merlin_ , how dare he be such an asshole?

“What. The fuck,” someone says.

Harry breaks the kiss immediately, rattled. Everyone is staring. Susan Bones’ mouth is hanging open. Hannah Abbott has fallen on top of a shell-shocked Neville. Anthony’s hand has stopped halfway through its motion and the contents of his drink are spilled on the ground. There’s a bit of drool at Seamus’ mouth. Hermione is passed out. Luna is re-arranging her hair.

Wait, Hermione is passed out?

Harry rushes to Ron’s side. Ron is fussing around, completely useless in his drunk stupor. 

“What happened?”

“Beats me,” Dean says, sounding transfixed.

“No, mate. _Hermione_.”

“She just fell asleep,” Sue Li assures them. “She’s had a bit much to drink. She’ll be disappointed to have missed the show.”

“And what a show!” Parkinson exclaims, her voice full of glee.

“Yes, do go on, Harry,” Luna says placidly. “It was very enjoyable.”

Harry blinks.

“I think I’m going to bed.”

“Will Draco be joining you?” Parkinson asks innocently, and that’s when Harry humbly bids leave to his legendary Gryffindor courage and high-tails out of the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Waking up is a sordid affair. The room is filled with pained groans and whines to ‘please turn off the sodding light’ (“It’s the sunlight, Seamus” “What are you doing in my bed?”). By the time Harry manages to convince himself to get up, he knows he’s going to be terribly late to the Quidditch team try-out he and Ron promised to go to. Still, this is _Ginny_ , and Merlin only knows what she does to people who break their promises to her, so he sits up, fights back the nausea, stands up, struggles not to retch, and miserably makes his way to Ron’s dormitory.

Everyone seems as pained in that room – Ernie is rolling around under his covers whispering something that sounds like ‘never, never again’ while Dean is reciting the states of America in what Harry can only guess is an attempt to warn off the puking – except for Anthony, who’s pouring some unidentified drink into a glass and humming ‘somewhere over the rainbow’ under his breath. He beams at Harry.

“Nothing like alcohol to cure a hang-over!”

“Uh. No, no thanks.”

“If you’re looking for the ginger, he’s with the elf enthusiast,” Anthony throws out his thumb to Ron’s bed, “so be careful.”

Hermione is still asleep, but Ron is amenable enough, and within half an hour, they’re both facing the morning winds on their way to the Quidditch pitch.

“Honestly, why didn’t you guys tell me about the whole staying up at night in the common room?” Ron asks, sounding a bit miffed.

“Didn’t wanna bother the only one of us who can get a decent night’s sleep.”

“I don’t want to get a good night’s sleep if my best friends are hurting somewhere else. I told Mione that she could just come to me when she wakes up, I don’t mind at all. She told me she sleeps better when I’m around.”

“Talkative last night, was she?” Harry grins.

“If you think she talks a lot normally, you know nothing,” Ron says, face sombre. “She woke up a bit after you left and started ranting about house elves and werewolf restrictions, and she’d fall asleep every ten minutes and then wake up and continue her rant exactly where she left off.”

“That’s scary. I don’t think we talk enough about how scary Hermione is.”

Ron raises his eyebrows.

“Speaking of scary, don’t think she’ll let the thing with Malfoy go once she finds out. What the hell was up with that, mate?”

“Uh…alcohol? Sexual frustration?”

Ron’s stare is utterly sceptical.

“A lot of it?”

Ron’s face doesn’t change. Harry points wildly.

“Oh look, Ginny!”

And he runs to meet his ex. She’s very unimpressed by Ron and his tardiness, not to mention how hungover they are.

“Honestly, I offer you the incredible privilege of watching kids fail miserably at flying, and you pass up the opportunity to go to a party I’m not even invited to?”

“How many have fallen off a broom so far?” Ron asks eagerly.

“Only two, but I’ve had two keepers hit by the quaffle and three people hit by bludgers.”

There’s a cry somewhere out on the pitch.

“Well, four.”

She flashes them a grin before turning around and squaring her shoulders.

“Alright, Park you’re out. Adams, Gregson, you’re on.”

It takes over an hour to find decent beaters, and the same amount of time for chasers, and Ron entertains them by recounting some of what happened last night, thankfully leaving out the whole Malfoy-Harry debacle. Soon it’s the seekers’ turn to try out. The position has never been as coveted as now. Not only is it the first time since Harry’s first year that the position is open, but they’re going to be taking Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World’s spot. Most of the candidates are terrible, and they watch student after student until a small third year suddenly zooms down the pitch. Harry grabs Ginny’s arm tightly just as she gasps.

“Well I guess there’s no real question anymore,” Harry deadpans, and Ron makes a little choked off noise before Ginny runs towards the pitch.

“Everyone can leave. Crazy diver, you’re hired!”

The two boys are about to follow her across the pitch when Harry’s eyes catch a glint of something shiny. It isn’t the golden snitch, but he makes his way towards it fast enough that one could have thought him mistaken. Malfoy is sitting on the ground next to a Hufflepuff girl a bit off the Quidditch pitch.

As Harry watches, she says something to him that makes him smile and roll his eyes, and it’s almost a shock to see Malfoy genuinely smile, not just one of those sneers or sarcastic grins Harry is privy to. Of course he’s seen him smile before, at Parkinson for example, but he always thought those were only reserved to fellow Slytherins and assholes. But here he is, spending quality time with who – if Harry squeezes his eyes –seems to be Angela Runcorn, and having the time of his life, all relaxed and laughing.

There’s a simmer of something in his stomach that he can’t completely attribute to the hangover. Everything about the situation is so damned frustrating. He can’t believe he’s been having sex with Draco Malfoy, git extraordinaire, racist and Death Eater. But most of all he can’t believe that he’s angry at him, not for being the piece of shit that he is, but for, what? Hating him? Being so cold? Laughing with others and not him?

Seeing Malfoy after talking to Ginny is jarring, too. How can he go from wanting someone so warm, funny and wonderful to _this_?

“Ugh this is Draco fucking Malfoy, what am I doing.”

His nausea was doing better since he got out of the castle and got some fresh air, but suddenly he wants to retch again.

“Hi Harry.”

He jumps, startled, and turns to see a softly smiling Luna at his side. She’s also holding something that looks like a dead rat.

“You know, this talent for showing up where you’re not expected is getting kind of worrying, Luna.”

“I believe our soul is like an iceberg,” she says instead of acknowledging his words. “You’re only aware of the very tip of your feelings. But in time, I do think the water level lowers, and with it the pain.” She turns to him and hands him the bloody animal. “In the meantime, a little company doesn’t hurt.”

Harry blinks, and she walks back to the Quidditch pitch, leaving him to his swirling thoughts. After a minute, he remembers his promise to Hannibal and heads for the Dark Forest, a dead rat in his hand and a strange weight in his chest.


	6. liquid gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update, I was busy with university, work and family things. Should be back on track from now on!

**CHAPTER 6**

_“he’s got a heart so pure,_

_i bet he has flowers growing between his ribs,_

_and liquid gold running through his veins,_

_i bet his lips taste like the sun’s warmth,_

_and his hands feel like home,_

_he’s god in human form,_

_but i’ve got a corrupted soul,_

_this dark heart would fade away in his light,_

_and a god shouldn’t fall in love with a devil like me” - but if he asked, i’d beg for him to destroy me, K.S._

Draco doesn’t see much Potter after the drunk incident-that-we-are- _not_ -talking-about-Pansy-and-I’m-still-angry-with-you. Figures, the golden boy is ashamed of having so openly kissed with the Death Eater. Draco doesn’t care. He truly doesn’t. He continues his life of being cold to Pansy (which lasts for about one day and a half after which the company of Angela Runcorn is just too difficult, she’s so damn _cheerful_ all the time, and also Pansy knows his favourite dessert and has always had a talent for bribery) and trying not to attract too much attention to himself.

But while the outright bullying hasn’t changed (and Draco can deal with it perfectly fine by himself, by the way, thank you very much), the attitude of other eight years towards him is more relaxed. The other day, Anthony Goldstein lent him a quill during Potions, and Longbottom keeps sitting next to him in Defence.

Draco still spends nights on the windowsill of the common room, but neither Granger nor Potter show up. It’s strange to think, that now the fire which he is so afraid of no longer lights up the chimney, and yet staying up doesn’t feel as comforting as it used to. As the end of October nears, almost two weeks after the infamous party, Potter disappears not only from the common room but from the classes. The day of Halloween, he’s completely absent. And Draco tries, he really does, but he can’t help but look around a little, wondering where the Saviour disappeared and why no one is mentioning it.

He must be looking particularly fidgety in Defence, because Longbottom suddenly shoots him a look.

“Are you looking for Harry?”

Draco scoffs.

“Please. Like I would care that he hasn’t shown up for breakfast and isn’t in classes.”

Longbottom raises his eyebrows.

“So you did notice.”

And it’s not like Draco can deny it, so he scowls instead. Longbottom hesitates a second before saying in a low tone.

“His parents died on Halloween.”

Draco barely holds in a gasp. Not because of the explanation of Potter’s absence or the fact that there’s yet another tragic experience added to Potter’s list (Halloween is a beautiful holiday of dark spirits and candy, two things Draco holds in high esteem, and it seems sad that Potter cannot enjoy it), but because Longbottom seems to think it’s okay to share such personal information about Harry with him.

“He only found out last year, cause he never saw their graves before being on the run from Voldemort,” Longbottom adds wryly. “So yeah, I think that it’s a bit hard for him these days, and that’s why he’s not around. And now, can we concentrate on these spells?”

Draco murmurs something insignificant in response, his mind racing. When did he become privy to Potter’s personal information, and what would Potter think if he knew?

 

* * *

 

 

Just as progressively as he disappeared, Potter comes back to his classes and spends more time in the common room as November starts. And as if everyone was just waiting for his return, there’s suddenly talk of another big party. Even Pansy and Millicent are excited at the prospect, and of course he can’t trust a Hufflepuff to sneer at parties. As for Longbottom, while he may technically have been a good ally, he’s too attracted to Hannah Abbott and too unable to let it show when sober not to love the idea of gaining some liquid courage.

Draco would do anything for people to stop blasting his ears about how much alcohol and food will be needed, and what games we should play and ugh, he’s almost tempted to spend time with Theodore instead. But if _he_ was depressing in the beginning of the year, he was still nowhere near what Theodore is on a daily basis, so that isn’t an option either.

Instead he must suffer in silence, as usual, polishing his acerbic comments and sharp insults for any time Pansy deigns to spend time in his company. At least it has the benefit of leaving him time to study, he thinks wryly on Wednesday evening, as he reads up on Charms in the common room.

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” Pansy chants. “How long are you going to ignore me?”

“Oh, you stooping down to my level, are we? Am I worth talking to again? Let me guess, the Ravenclaws went to sleep in order to keep their livers, sorry, minds fresh?”

Pansy stares at him.

“You are the biggest drama queen I have ever met.”

Draco turns a page of his book. Pansy stares some more.

“Seriously, it’s been three days since Goldstein first mentioned a party. I talk about it with you once, and suddenly I’m being ignored? I promise I won’t make you kiss Potter again.”

Draco feels his resolve to stay bitter soften, until he hears the stubborn whisper, ‘although it’s not like you didn’t like it.’ He lifts his head to give her one perfected Malfoy glare before returning his attention to his Charms book. She has the nerve to giggle.

“Oh come on, I just spent some time with the girls, because since you’re so stuck up I can’t talk to you about who I want to make moves on during the party. See! You just clammed up at the word ‘party’! Do you have trauma from last time or something? It’s been a month!”

“Pansy, you insensitive cow, it’s not about last time, it’s about the fact that every other word out of your mouth–”

At the edge of his vision, the fire in the chimney flares up, and Draco flinches violently. He clenches his teeth hard, fighting against the instinctive reaction to _get out of here, now_. He’s so concentrated on keeping his calm that he doesn’t realize he’s moving, not until the cold panel of the window hits his back. Pansy is in front of him, speaking softly. He belatedly realizes she must have pushed him away from the fire and sat him down on his ‘safe spot’.

“Draco,” she says again, and he suddenly releases the hold on her sleeve that he hadn’t realized he had in the first place. “Are you okay?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, the fire burns bright, students smiling as they bask in the warmth and light that it provides. A tremor runs through him.

“I’m alright.”

“Okay,” she says and sits next to him, grabbing his hand.

Draco lifts his head but no one seems to have noticed anything. The students still up are either chatting animatedly among themselves (that damned party), or studying (that damned Golden Trio). He lets out a relieved breath, and clenches Pansy’s hand harder in his.

“So what’s the Charm lesson about? I didn’t study at all cause I was busy gossiping these past few days, and now I’m going to fail that test.”

She pouts, which is truly a horrible sight, and he already feels a bit better.

He manages to get Pansy to study with him for a total of ten minutes before the inevitable happens.

“Draco, we’re up tonight, no?”

Draco represses a sigh and nods at Theodore, who for all his scowling never misses an occasion to spends time in the owlery, even if it means having to socially interact with someone. There are running bets among the students about what he’s doing up there. Considering that his Death Eater father died in the war and the only support system Theo had left to live it up in Italy, Draco doesn’t think it all that amusing.

“Get some sleep, Pans. You’re welcome for the lesson, and I’m just letting you know that I expect breakfast in bed as a thank you.”

“Dream on,” she pats his cheek before heading towards the stairs.

As usual, Theodore sticks around for about ten minutes before making up and excuse and hightailing towards the towers. From there on Draco roams around aimlessly, very occasionally seeing some younger years out of bounds and sending them back to their dormitories. The good thing is, if they’re not trying to attack him, they’re deathly scared of him, which makes his job much easier.

After the fifth student staring at him in fear and running back to their House, Draco deems himself done for the night. Not to mention that no one has attacked him yet, and if he can get a night off from healing himself and then hiding the lasting bruises, he’ll take it. He walks the way back to the tower, mind wandering, half thinking of tomorrow’s Charms test, half worrying about having to write his mother a letter soon. He has yet to answer any of hers, and she’s becoming increasingly maudlin.

“I’m just going for a walk, don’t wait up.”

Draco raises his head to see Potter exiting the common room. It takes the Boy Who Lived To Fuck Up Draco’s Life about one second before realizing who’s in front of him.

“Malfoy,” he greets, and Draco has to do a double-take because that’s the first time he’s spoken to him in a month or so. Green eyes scan him. “Are you doing alright?”

Oh. Of course. Draco scoffs.

“If you could put your saviour complex on hold for a second, you’d find that a lot of people would be thankful.”

Potter sends him an annoyed look.

“Do you ever get off that high horse? I’m just asking if you’re hurt.”

“Your concern isn’t appreciated. How many times do we have to do this? Let me run you through it once again: you think you’re entitled to worry about my physical safety, I politely remind you that it’s none of your business, you get high and mighty, things heat up, punches are thrown and we’re both left with nothing achieved and bruises on our ego. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll pass.”

“I thought we were past this,” Potter says, his tone unreadable.

“What, after a drunken, dared kiss which prompted you to ignore me for a month? Or maybe after you assaulted me in the corridor?”

Potter’s face darkens.

“You did your fair bit of assaulting too, if I remember correctly.”

“You’re the one that rutted against me like a _bitch in heat_.”

“Oh excuse me, you didn’t seem to mind that much with how loudly you were moaning.”

Draco grits his teeth against the truth of that statement. Sod him. Sod all of this.

“None of this is my fault. You’re the one who started this mess.”

“Blaming others is becoming quite a specialty of yours, huh?”

Draco feels as though he’s been slapped across the face. He stares, winded, at Potter’s quickly paling face. It feels as though a mirror has been placed in front of him and he watches Potter go through the motions ‘holy Merlin, I went way too far’. Anger, hesitation, remorse, dread. And dread he should. Draco lets a mean smirk cross his lips.

“My, my, Potter is getting out his claws. What do you think the Daily Prophet would say to that? Would they applaud you for hurting a Death Eater, or would they think you’re on your way to becoming the Dark Lord? Oh yes, maybe that would feed the rumours that you two aren’t so different after all. Both abandoned by their parents, both powerful and having to deal with oh-so-difficult popularity. I even heard you were almost sorted in Slytherin. Tell me, how does it feel, to be so alike murderers?” His sharp grin widens. “I wouldn’t know, I’m a coward after all. What do you think your mother would–”

Potter’s self-control finally snaps and Draco is thrown back against the wall. But he has no time to say something scathing or push back before Potter’s mouth comes crashing on his. Draco is momentarily taken aback and his resistance softens to shock long enough that Potter can really take control of the kiss. His body crowds Draco’s, all lean muscle.

“Shut up, God, just fucking shut up for once,” he says, and kisses Draco again.

This time Draco responds, gripping Potter’s hair roughly and tugging him harder against him. Their mouths slide together, and Draco lets out a strangled moan when Potter suddenly bites his lower lip. Potter is the tiniest bit shorter than him, but he’s also more muscular, with wide shoulders and strong arms, and Draco shouldn’t be enjoying it so much but he basks in it, the feeling of being pressed against the cold brick and the hot, strong frame of the sodding Saviour.

They’re breathing each other’s air, lost to the want and the need, hands wandering the length of each other’s body. Draco moans again when Potter inevitably makes a beeline for his neck, and he doesn’t have the strength of mind to complain about it this time, not when he’s so desperately in need for more friction, if Potter would just get a bit closer and cooperate some more–

“Harry?” Granger calls out, and everything comes to a standstill.

Potter and Draco stare at each other wide-eyed, the moment suspended.

“Are you out here? We’re going to bed. Please don’t stay up too long, there’s the Charms test tomorrow.”

There’s the sound of a door closing, and Draco lets out a full-bodied sigh of relief. She didn’t see them. Thank Merlin. He wouldn’t want to have to answer _those_ questions. Potter takes a step back and runs a hand through his even-more-ruined-than-usual hair.

“I’ll just…” he points in the direction of the dormitory. “I’ll just go to bed then,” he says, and makes no indication to move.

After a couple of seconds, Draco raises his eyebrows.

“Well what are you waiting for? Go. It’s what I’ve been telling you to do all along.”

Potter rolls his eyes, and edges closer for a second before obviously changing his mind and making his way towards the 8th year dormitory. Draco allows himself a moment to wonder what Potter was about to do before forcefully changing the course of his thoughts. After all, Granger was right: there _is_ that Charms test to worry about.

 

* * *

 

 

“And so I’m not allowed to know what suddenly changed your mind?”

“What do you mean what ‘changed’ my mind? I never said I didn’t want to go to the party, I was simply expressing my annoyance that it was all you talked about.”

“You literally said that you wouldn’t go to another of these parties if your own life depended on it,” Pansy deadpans. “‘It’s filled with disgustingly Gryffindor and Hufflepuff people, and they have no style. I think I’d rather go to Slughorn’s club’. And that is a direct quote.”

Draco shrugs delicately.

“That may be the case, but I’m not obligated to tell you everything about my thought process. I do have to keep a bit of mystery, it’s the charm of my persona.”

Pansy cuts him a _look_.

“Draco, you are an open book to literally anyone who knows you the slightest bit. You are incapable of keeping secrets, and rant so much about every aspect of your life that it’s quite impossible that you so-called persona should have even one shred of mystery left to it.”

Draco blinks.

“I dislike you, Pansy. Where is my dearest friend Angela Runcorn?”

“The aforementioned disgusting Hufflepuff?”

Draco ignores Pansy and crawls over to Angela, who gladly hands out the bottle of Firewhiskey to him. While some of the 8th years are still in Botanical class and some went to have pre-drinks at Hogsmeade, others started early.

“Here, have some of this,” Mandy Brocklehurst says, pouring him a glass of clear liquid.

Draco stares at it quizzically.

“It’s Muggle,” she says.

He sniffs at it carefully but can’t really smell anything. Typical. Any good drink deserving of its name should have a particular smell. Draco’s mother used to teach him how to recognize the quality of a wine and a whiskey by taking one sniff at it. He shrugs. Oh well, he just drank Firewhiskey straight from the bottle. How bad can this be?

Draco takes a confident gulp, and immediately spits it all out.

“What is this stuff? And then I’m expected to like Muggles? What is this torture?”

Mandy explodes in a fit of giggles.

“You’re supposed to mix it with orange juice or something!” She laughs. “I can’t believe you just drank pure vodka.”

“You guys don’t drink pure vodka?” Anthony Goldstein scoffs as he enters the common room. “Weaklings.”

Behind him is the crew of Weasley, Thomas, Finnegan and Potter, who Draco presumes are the ones who went for ‘pre-drinks at the Leaky’. Weasley scans the room.

“Isn’t Mione back from her class?”

“Which one,” Sue Li grins. “Doesn’t she take them all? By the way, there’s a rumour that she used a time turner to attend all her classes in third year. Is that true?”

“Classified information,” Harry answers with a charming grin.

A charming grin that he then turns towards the rest of the room, which includes Draco, who suddenly spills vodka all over himself.

“Shit, fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and is about to spell his trousers dry when Pansy pushes his wand away.

“Seriously, put that away, you’re going to blow off your bits. How did you get drunk on so little alcohol?”

He unhappily endures her drying his trousers for him, as he’s not about to say that the clumsiness was a result of sodding Potter’s smile and not his level of drunkenness. Ignoring Pansy’s scoffs, he downs three more shots in the five minutes it takes for the students from Botanical class to come back, Longbottom and Granger in front. And since Pansy’s being so annoying, he settles closer to Angela, who smiles brightly and doesn’t give him any shit for not talking to her much these past few days, and she also lets him put his head on her lap, and really she’s a much better friend than Pansy, what was he thinking? He only pays half a mind to the general conversation as Angela runs her hand through his hair in that delicious way and passes him drinks whenever he finishes his glass.

“I truly love you,” he declares as she hands him his third (fourth?) glass of Fireball. “And I am going to tell you something important for our Muggle Studies. They drink disgusting things called vodkas, which taste horrendous, and–”

“Vodka doesn’t taste horrendous,” someone intervenes, “you’re just weak.”

Draco shoots the offensive person a dark look.

“Sorry, did it sound like I asked for your opinion?”

Angela tuts at his mean tone before turning to the asshole who dared to interrupt Draco’s very important lesson.

“Anthony, really, don’t insult him like that.”

“Don’t worry, Angela, he’s just jealous of our love.”

“What love?” Anthony blurts out, sounding scandalized, and Draco snickers.

He didn’t see this coming, but it could be fun. He finishes his glass and lets a smug smirk cross his face as he leans his head into Angela’s hands.

“You have very talented hands,” he says flirtatiously, batting eyelashes up at her.

She giggles, patting his cheek fondly.

“You’re such a silly drunk, Draco.”

“ _Really_?” He almost purrs, and he doesn’t look towards Anthony Goldstein, but he can feel his heavy glare on him.

His smile widens.

“Draco,” comes Pansy’s hushed voice, “Potter’s staring.”

“Hmm?” He detaches his attention from Angela and back to his best friend. “What?”

“Potter’s staring,” she repeats.

Surprise shoots down his body, and a pleasured flush makes its way to his cheeks.

“Is he now?”

Sitting up the slightest bit, he sneaks a glance at Potter under the pretence of reaching for a beer bottle. And stutters to a halt. Indeed, Potter’s attention is focused on him and Angela, green eyes looking hazy and dark, but that’s not what gets Draco’s heart pumping so hard. No, it’s that Potter’s shirtless. Draco feels dizzy suddenly. He sits up straight and grabs Pansy’s arm.

“Why isn’t he wearing a shirt?”

“Uh…cause he was dared to take it off?” Pansy answers like it should be obvious, but it isn’t because Draco was too busy messing with Goldstein and missed this vital moment that is now leading to his complete and utter demise.

In that instant, he knows. He is _ruined_. Potter has strong, muscular shoulders, but his body is on the leaner side, his abs just lightly pronounced. A trail of dark hair goes from his belly button and disappears between the V of slim hipbones that are just _begging_ to be licked. But that’s not even the worst of it.

“The tattoos,” Draco finally manages to rasp out, his fingers still holding Pansy’s arm tightly. “Why does he have…tattoos?”

She says something in response but he can’t even hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. He feels out of breath, flames of desire slowly licking up his stomach until his entire skin feels like it’s burning up.

There’s scribbled words and a pattern of footprints on his right ribs, the black ink outlining each bone under the muscles. On his left ribs, a beautiful flower blooms, delicate and pretty in a way he never thought he’d see Potter. Draco’s eyes go further up to the golden snitch over Potter’s heart, just to the left of an ugly scar, a circular burn that sends shivers through him. It’s Dark magic, he can tell. And yet Potter is very much alive, a smirk resting on his lips now as he sees Draco drink in his body. It sends an almost violent lust through him.

And then someone calls Potter’s name and he turns around, and all the air left in Draco’s lungs leaves. Because on the broad expanse of his back, a phoenix in a gorgeous mess of red, orange and gold spreads its wings. It’s breath-taking and so alive-looking and so fucking Potter-like, because he’s exactly the type to escape death and yes, he’s burns so brightly– and Draco needs to have sex, _now_.

He can’t even recall what happened but they end up on a bed, Potter’s mouth on his hot skin, Draco’s hands relentlessly tracing the curves and angles of his torso. He pushes Potter on his back and takes his time licking at his every tattoo, swallowing moans as Potter continues to work at his neck, marking him again and again as if he can’t get enough. Draco’s shirt is ripped off his body, and he would have complained if it wasn’t for the promise is in Potter’s half crazed eyes. So instead, he loses himself in pleasure.

 

* * *

 

 

Afterwards, Draco lies awake. Potter passed out after cleaning them up with a mumbled, wandless spell. Downstairs, he can hear the muted sounds of people talking and laughing, but he has no desire to join them. Instead he watches the rise and fall of Potter’s chest next to him, basking in the silence of the dorm. He’ll have to leave soon, he knows, before Potter’s roommates come back from the party and find them on a bed together (although for all Draco remembers, they may have started making out in front of everyone). Still, there’s a difference between drunken kisses and sharing a bed, and it’s a line he’s not willing to cross. At all.

 Next to him, Potter lets out a sleepy sound and turns to his side, his hair startling black against the white sheets. Draco’s fingers twitch with the sudden urge to push the messy strands from his face. Instead, he lets his gaze linger on the Saviour’s face, on the high cheekbones, straight nose and sharp jaw. It’s strange to see him in such an intimate situation. It makes him seem almost approachable, his mouth not set in determination but soft, and his short, curly eyelashes no longer framing those ruthless green eyes. Not that he looks vulnerable. His frame is tense even in sleep, as if ready to wake up and fight at the slightest sound. And, of course, the scar would never let anyone forget what a dangerous opponent he is.

Aside from the famous lightning on his forehead, there’s that horrible burned mark on his chest. There’s also two silver points on his right forearm the like of which snake fangs would leave, and Draco wonders when Potter met Nagini. He also wonders how the fuck he, Draco Malfoy, previously ally of the man (could you even call him a man?) who inflicted those scars on Potter, ended up here. In bed with the enemy. With the good guy, really, the one who suffered and saved the world and decided that Draco and his mother deserved forgiveness. Who trusted him enough – consciously or not – to fall asleep next to him while bare and drunk.

There’s a pressure against Draco’s chest, and his vision is suddenly blurry. How does one become so pure, so utterly _good_? It’s a thought his father would have scoffed as, because what power comes from being good? But Draco’s face is covered in tears by the time he makes his way back to his own bed.

 

* * *

 

 

_Dear Mother,_

_I am sorry it took me so long to write back. I am doing well, and am treated decently by my classmates. Pansy especially is taking good care of me. I am not ready to see Father yet. I know this disappoints you but I cannot find it in me to forgive him._

_I hope you stay healthy,_

_Your loving son,_

_Draco._

 

* * *

 

 

Draco is half-dozing against the window, a Potions textbook in his hands, when he’s startled from sleep. After sending Aristoteles away with the letter to his mother (the damned bird wouldn’t leave without response, and spent two days in the owlery waiting for Draco to finally write), he has found it even harder than usual to fall asleep. So, even if coming down to the common room doesn’t feel as good as it used to (for a reason that Draco determinedly chooses not to examine), he decided to get some reading done here instead of staying trapped with his thoughts.

But he must have dozed off because the sound of someone going down the stairs wakes him up. It’s not from the girls’ dorm, as he can’t see anyone walking down. He tightens his grip on his book, a strange anticipation curling in his stomach.

Potter is wearing a big tee-shirt and what looks like very loose and very ugly cotton slacks. He drags his feet to his preferred armchair and almost collapses onto it. There’s a rustle like he’s taking out his wand, before he suddenly turns around and looks over the back of the chair, straight at Draco.

Draco’s breath stutters in his chest as he’s caught staring. It’s the first time Potter has ever noticed him here, yet he doesn’t look the slightest bit surprised. Could he have known the entire time and just not let anything on? It seems impossible that he wouldn’t have antagonized Draco and let him be. Or did Granger tell him Draco spent time here as well, and is that why Potter and her suddenly stopped coming here? Was Potter going to tell him to leave?

Draco feels on edge. He doesn’t want a fight. Potter lets out something like a sigh.

“Aren’t you cold?” He says, and all the tension leaves Draco.

He sounds tired, but decent. Friendly, even. Draco doesn’t answer. It _is_ cold in the common room, but there’s no way he’ll tell Potter that he’s deathly afraid and would rather not Potter light the chimney. Potter sighs again and waves his wand, muttering something. Warmth spreads in the air, subtly heating up the room and soothing the chill in Draco’s bones. Draco stares, and Potter shrugs.

“You don’t like fires, do you?”

Draco keeps staring and wills his heart to stop beating so damn hard. Potter turns back around on his chair and disappears from sight, yet his magic lingers in the room. It’s strangely comfortable, and after a minute’s hesitation, Draco opens his book again. They’re mostly silent but from time to time, Potter will renew the warming charm and ask Draco if he’s comfortable, and it’s not just Draco’s body that is warmed.

He doesn’t know if this Potter, this middle of the night post nightmare Potter, is more open than usual or if their relationship has somehow changed enough that they can spend time together without being at each other’s throat – literally. The thought makes him bold, and when Potter lets out another of those bone weary, frustrated little sighs, Draco stands up and sits in an armchair next to him.

Potter is leaning his head back against the armchair, and Draco finds himself staring at the sharp, strong jaw. He remembers biting at it, sucking and kissing in the haze of alcohol. Flushing a bit, he’s about to turn his gaze away when Potter opens his eyes.

“Please don’t…start anything, I’m really not in the mood,” he simply says dully before closing his eyes again.

Draco’s first instinct is to snipe at him, because exactly what kind of ‘anything’ is he talking about here, and why would he assume Draco would start it, it’s been Potter all along– he bites it back. Because that’s exactly what Potter meant. He allows himself a moment more to look at Potter’s face before turning back to his book.

“Why do you come down here?” Potter eventually asks.

“I can’t sleep. Why else?”

“There’s a lot of reasons why someone can’t sleep.”

“You have nightmares.”

Potter opens his eyes and looks straight at Draco. It’s a little unnerving, to be quite honest, that direct stare, like he can see straight through Draco’s defences and irony and down to the black of his insides.

“I do,” he answers eventually. “And you have guilt.”

Draco resists the urge to grit his teeth.

“I thought you didn’t want to start anything.”

Potter half-grins in acknowledgement, and runs a hand through his hair. For a startlingly clear instant, Draco has the image of Potter smiling like that to him on a daily basis. He looks soft like this, his muscles no longer on the verge of a fight, the way they were in his sleep, but relaxed in something akin to resignation. There’s acceptance in the way his drowsy body leans against the armchair, in the way his eyes stay shut and in the half smile adorning his face.

And Draco wonders what it would like to always be accepted like this by him. What it would be like if Potter didn’t think of him as a coward who’s only good for some occasional stress relief. If they weren’t made of just hate and misunderstandings, but of soft moments like these, silent respect and fondness. If there was love.

Just the thought of it should make Draco want to retch, but instead all he feels is longing. For Potter not leaving bruises at his throat, but kissing him tenderly. For the warmth of arms around him rather than a weight pressing him against a cold wall. For praise and fingers running through his hair and down his body as if he was worth something. As if he was worth a quarter of an inch of the Saviour. What would it be like if it was real?

And Draco realizes, the fear ice-cold in his stomach, that he is falling for Harry Potter.


	7. strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello....i am back... sbhsjds i hav no excuses im sorry but heres a chapter!

**CHAPTER 7**

_“We’re not lovers, we’re just strangers_

_With the same damn hunger to be touched, to be loved_

_To feel anything at all.” - Strangers, Halsey_

 

Harry leans heavily onto Neville, trying miserably to blink the tiredness out of his eyes. Turns out that drinking his weekend away and then having to write all his essays and catch up on the projects due next week, plus the whole not sleeping thing, does not do wonders to his body. He’s exhausted, and most importantly, hiding.

Ron and Hermione have been on his ass about Malfoy for a couple of days now, and he’s managed to distract or avoid them, but he knows eventually he’ll have to face the music. In the meantime, he can melt into Neville’s side and pretend to understand what he’s saying about his plants. 

As Neville speaks of the different properties of a certain type of pesticide, Harry notices Malfoy entering the common room. He looks a little haggard, like he hasn’t slept in days, yet Harry knows intimately that he slept long last night. First dozing off on the window sill, and then falling asleep on an armchair next to Harry. It’s the third time this has happened, and they’ve reached some sort of truce, where neither speaks much and they enjoy the silence and peace together. It’s strange to think that spending hours in the middle of the night with Draco would be as almost as comfortable as with Hermione. Unnerving, really.

“So yeah, what do you think? Will she like it?”

He’d look much more peaceful then, still unbearably aristocratic, but he’d look like a calm artwork rather than the messy, angry one stalking towards the dormitories. He wonders what could have happened to throw him in this mood. Did he get bullied again? Or did someone steal his cupcake?

“Harry?”

“Hmm?” He says, detaching his eyes from Malfoy’s grumpy face to see Neville’s troubled, open expression.

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

“Uh…” He’s a terrible friend. “Madam Sprout?”

“No…Hannah Abbot?”

The _worst_ friend. He blinks. Neville sighs.

“Did you listen to anything I said?”

Harry turns somewhat meek.

“Something about pesticides…”

Neville gives him a _look_.

“That was like, ten minutes ago. I’m talking about what to do with Hannah on the next Hogsmeade date.”

“Neville, I don’t know how to break this to you, but I’m. Not. The best when it comes to dates.”

Memories of his date with Cho’s rise and he shudders.

“Good point,” Neville admits easily, and Harry doesn’t even have the moral high ground to be offended. “But still. You’ve had two girlfriends. You must know a minimum of knowledge about what they like.”

Harry frowns.

“You know, Nev, I don’t think I can count Cho as a girlfriend. And Ginny is like…whatever the opposite of Hannah is. I guess you could go with stuff Ginny would hate. So, teacup at that romantic place? Then buy her a gift and end up with a walk somewhere just the two of you. Ginny would really hate that,” he snickers, counting on his fingers. “Horribly cheesy café, then sexist because why would you be the one buying a gift and not the other way around, and finally a waste of time, because if you wanted to get a work-out you might as well train some Quidditch instead of walking aimlessly.”

Neville is looking at him with wide, awed eyes.

“Harry…that’s exactly what I spent ten minutes explaining to you that I wanted to do with Hannah. No, seriously, that was exactly my plan.” He’s staring. “Have you been spending more time with Trelawney recently?”

Harry stills, his smile fading. The mention of Trelawney, especially from Neville, is not something he’ll ever be quite ready for.

“No.”

He’s spared from having to change the subject or face Neville’s questions when Hermione suddenly descends on him with all the grace of an avenging angel. On second thoughts, seeing her determined face, Harry might have preferred Neville’s questions.

“Mione,” he grins, waving a hand. “Hi. So nice to see–”

She grabs him by the arm and drags him towards their more or less assigned armchairs before staring him down.

“Explain yourself. I couldn’t exactly hunt you down before because I had an Arithmancy test but now I’m free and I swear Harry if you try to hide again I will hunt you down–”

“Wow! An Arithmancy test, you didn’t tell me! How did it go?”

She narrows his eyes. He gulps.

“Okay so like, it’s not a big deal! It’s not a big thing! We just…have a tendency to make out when drunk.”

He very consciously does not mention the whole fighting turned fucking and the Malfoy dropping on his knees for him after Defence. He doesn’t know what she would make of it – hell, Merlin knows he doesn’t either – but probably not something as harmless as drunk hooking up.

“I thought you said he hated you.”

“I…” Harry shrugs. “I think he does. But that has nothing to do with the way hormones acts up with alcohol. You know, chemical reactions and all?”

“Considering you very obviously never took biology or chemistry classes, you might wanna just. Stop there.”

There’s a pause.

“Anyway it has nothing to do with whether or not he hates me. Which he totally does. Definitely.”

Hermione raises her brows, and Harry can’t help but admit the weakness of his arguments. Because while Malfoy has kept a constant streak of insulting Harry, it’s been a while since he’s actually acted like he hates him. The whole staying up late together in comfortable silence kind of opposes to that. But Hermione doesn’t know about that, neither does she need to know, so Harry puffs out a breath.

“Listen, yeah, we made out and did some other questionable stuff. But he still insults me when he kisses me, and he left before I woke up. So, no worries to be had, we still dislike each other, all’s fair in sex and war. Hmm?”

Hermione’s narrow stare doesn’t let up for a couple of seconds, but she eventually hums.

“Okay. Sure. We’ll leave at that for now. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

He sends her a boyish grin.

“When do I ever?”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry feels absolutely electrified, every nerve ending of his body burning up. The only sound he can hear are the pants and high moans in his ear, Malfoy’s body almost trembling above his. There’s a half-aborted attempt at a kiss, teeth clashing, before Malfoy presses his mouth against Harry’s jaw and whispers:

“Come.”

A shudder racks through Harry’s body and the tension snaps, his orgasm hitting him hard. He pants, his hand grabbing at Malfoy’s shoulder for something to hold on to as he rides out the waves of pleasure. Of course, Malfoy barely leaves him any time to indulge in his high before he whines, demanding attention. Harry curls his fingers around his dick again, jerking him off in rough, effective movements and sometimes pressing his thumb into the slit, which causes Malfoy to let out a high, keening sound. And Harry has just come, but the desperation in Malfoy’s voice when he moans at his touch still sends fire down his veins.

“Come on Malfoy, what are you waiting for?” He drawls. “That feels good, huh?”

Draco lets out a whimpered ‘please’, and Harry grins.

“Do you like hearing me talk like that? You like my voice? Want me to tell you how pretty you look, all flushed and desperate for me? Fuck, you actually get off on this, that’s so hot. Next time I’ll actually fuck you, yeah? You’ll be all desperate for me again, all tight and gorgeous on my bed, begging for my cock.”

Harry has no idea what he’s doing, relying completely on instinct as he lets his arousal speak for him, and one of his hands drifts away from Malfoy’s dick and further down. Malfoy jolts, and the instant Harry’s fingertips graze his puckered entrance, he comes with a loud cry, burying his head in Harry’s neck.

For some reason, this time, Harry doesn’t feel the immediate compulsion to move away as fast as possible. Perhaps it’s because it’s happened enough times that he’s coming to terms with the fact that he’s hooking up with Malfoy, or perhaps because they’ve slowly developed an acceptance to each other, furthered by the nights spent side by side in the common room. Whatever it is, he doesn’t make a move until Malfoy has recovered from his orgasm and raises his head from where it’s lying in the crook of Harry’s neck.

He looks rumpled, messy. White-blonde hair sticking up in all directions, eyes half lidded with the remaining haze of pleasure, mouth reddened with Harry’s kisses. Harry has to resist the sudden urge to touch his face, to see if the sharp angles would cut his fingers or if they would be as startlingly soft as the rest of Malfoy’s skin.

“Harry,” he says, and everything comes to a standstill.

Harry can feel his hand suddenly tremble, and there’s a soft vulnerability to the moment, like the next words are going to break it. Calm before the storm. But Malfoy doesn’t seem to have noticed his own slip up and he continues his sentence, unaware of how close to the edge he’s treading. The edge of what, Harry couldn’t tell, but there’s a pressure on his chest and he drinks in Malfoy’s next words in anticipation.

“This is horrid, Harry,” he complains, his voice too low to hold all its usual sharp edges. “I have come all over me. Pansy would say I have no class. But I’m too tired to clean up.”

Harry lets out a lazy grin and reaches over the bed to the nightstand to grab the wand there. He’s about to spell the remnants of sex away when he feels Malfoy freeze beside him, all openness and relaxation sliding right off his face.

“Don’t fucking touch it,” he seethes.

And so the moment breaks.

“Wh-what?” Harry replies, taken aback and desperately trying to reconcile the past couple of minutes with the sudden cold fury in Malfoy’s tone.

“Your hand. Off. My. Wand.”

Harry lets go of the wand as if it burned him, and it falls on the bed between them. Malfoy immediately takes it and spells them clean before sitting up and starting to put his clothes back on. Harry takes the time to settle his mind from the shocking change, and finally lets out a half amused, half scandalized chuckle.

“Well that ruined the mood.”

Malfoy sends him a cutting look from where he’s getting dressed.

“Hilarious as always,” he rolls his eyes. Then he hesitates a second before adding. “I’ll see you around, Potter,” and striding out of the bedroom.

It feels empty, suddenly. It’s a nice afternoon, really. There’s a soft rushing wind coming from the open window, the November sun peeking through the clouds. He can hear some laughs from the common room, and distant cries where people are playing a friendly game on the Quidditch pitch. Harry’s gaze drops to the tangled bedsheets, and thinks that he’s never hated the sound of his own last name more.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry is lying on his back in the middle of his bedroom, eyes closed as Ron squats close to him. The magic barely tickles his skin as Ron tries out the different spells they learned in Transfiguration. He’s smiling, remembering how Tonks would change her appearance to make them laugh during the harder times, and thinking of the little Teddy, now living with Andromeda. He’ll have to visit for Christmas, he reminds himself. While Ron turns his skin different pastel colours and makes questionable lumps grow, he listens to Terry Boot reading out his History of Magic notes to them.

Terry is in the middle of explaining the laws of 1690 after the second goblin war when Seamus walks in. He takes one look at the way Ron is almost straddling Harry and lets out an excited exclamation.

“What’s going on here and how can I become part of it?”

Through half-opened lids, Harry sees his best friend send a scathing look to Seamus, and stifles a laugh.

“We’re just talking about goblin laws, wanna join?” Terry asks.

Instead of answering, Seamus points a finger at Harry.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, I’m already angry at you. I’m the resident gay tm here, and yet you’re the one having sex? Not that I’m even attracted to Malfoy, but I can’t believe I’m suffering from sexual frustration alone while you’re tapping that ass.”

Ron lets out a strangled sound.

“I’m not–I’m not _tapping_ that ass, Seamus!” Harry exclaims, somewhat horrified and only half-lying.

“You aren’t? Huh. That’s too bad for you to be honest, he has a really nice ass…”

Both Ron, Harry and Terry send him another scandalized look, and he laughs before letting himself fall to his bed with a dramatic sigh.

“Ah, where’s my prince charming when I need him? Not that I have a prince charming, mind you, but that’d be pretty hot, no? Some guy coming to save me with a beautiful smile and cock up my ass.”

Seamus stays on the bed for a total of thirty seconds, drumming his fingers against the mattress, before suddenly shooting up with a cry of ‘has anyone seen Dean?’ and disappearing out the door.

There’s a silence.

“So…uh, the third law meant that goblins had to register all magical objects they made.”

Harry chuckles again and leans back down on the floor, letting Ron fix that strange blue spot he made on his stomach.

By the time Neville comes to get them for dinner, the three of them aren’t much more knowledgeable about goblin history but Ron has finally managed to get rid of the green elephant he drew on Harry’s back, so Harry counts that as a small victory. They find Dean and Seamus at the Gryffindor table with Anthony, and it takes Harry a moment to even realize that he isn’t supposed to be there. The sight makes him smile though, and as he looks around the room, he notices how many other 8thyear students are eating at other Houses’ tables. There’s Pansy Parkinson eating with some Ravenclaw girls, Lavender and Parvati at the Hufflepuff table and, perhaps most noticeably, Hermione sitting with Millicent Bulstrode at the Slytherin table.

Seeing everyone get along so well, he wonders how long it’ll take for the other Hogwarts students to do the same. It makes an almost irrational joy bubble up in him. Because what would make Voldemort and his followers more outraged than to know that their uprising caused bonds between wizards to strengthen, blood status and House affiliation be damned.

“She’s completely abandoned us,” Ron mumbles, looking at the Slytherin table. “I never see her anymore.”

“Uh, she was definitely in your bed this morning,” Dean deadpans.

“Speaking of which,” Seamus adds from where he’s glued to his best friend’s side, “I hope that you don’t do the nasty when other people are in the room. I don’t need Dean to be around so much heterosexuality. I’ve been working so hard on him,” he pouts and steals a fry from his plate.

Harry and Neville exchange an alarmed look but decide not to comment, and Ron is too busy choking on his food, face red, to let out anything but a strangled:

“Hey!”

“Don’t worry Seamus,” Dean pats his friend’s arm. “Ron would never lay a finger on Hermione around people, he’s too afraid of her possible reaction. I’ve never even seen them make out. Hermione only sleeps in the bed cause she has a fucked sleep pattern and he helps. It’s kinda cute.”

Seamus looks at Ron in horror.

“Okay, first off, now he’s saying that your relationship is cute, that’s a definite step backwards, and second off, I’m worried about you. Do you _not_ have sex with Hermione at all? I can’t believe that out of all of us, Harry is the one with the most active sex life.”

Ron is busy coughing violently and Harry just shrugs.

“I deserve it after saving y’all’s asses,” he says, a satisfied smile on his face as he fake-inspects his nails.

Neville and Seamus dissolve into giggles while Dean lets out a thoughtful hum.

“Low-key true. But you were with Ginny during some of the war, so it can’t have been a complete dry spell.”

“Did you just say ‘y’all’?” Seamus chokes out, and Harry throws a handful of fries at his face.

“Shut up and concentrate on Dean. He seems awfully interested in his ex- _girl_ friend’s sexual habits.”

Seamus’ attitude instantly changes and he turns back to Dean with a severe:

“We _talked_ about this.”

Meanwhile, Harry pats Ron’s back. It was a bit of a rough one, mentioning both his sex life with Hermione, Harry’s sex life with Draco and Ginny’s sex life all at once. It may take him a bit to recover. Finally Ron stops coughing and drapes himself over Harry’s shoulders.

“I hate you. Give me your chicken wings.”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry’s spirits are so high that he doesn’t mind Luna disappearing twelve seconds into their round. He stalks the corridors alone, occasionally finding a blushing couple or band of courageous second years. He can’t really lie to himself though, he’s not just idly strolling around. There’s something in him pushing to find a certain blonde Slytherin. In fact, Malfoy may not even be out, but he didn’t see him in the common room and it was unlikely that he had gone to bed already. So here Harry is, walking up and down a gigantic castle in the vague hope of finding Malfoy. He doesn’t even know what he wants from him, their last encounter having left a bitter taste in his mouth – once again.

Yet, the second he hears a familiar drawling voice, he can’t help breaking into a run towards the sound, and accelerates when Malfoy’s voice is cut off by the muffled sound of a hit. Harry comes to a standstill at the corner of the corridor. Despite the hope that blossomed in his chest during dinner, it’s obvious that many will have trouble letting go of their resentment and hardships. Malfoy is once again being harassed, this time by a larger group of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. He doesn’t look like he got in any physical argument yet, his face unmarred by bruises, but with the things he’s spitting at the apparent leader of the group, that’s not going to last long.

“Yes, yes, I empathize. Far be it from me to understand what it’s like feeling threatened in your own home. But tell me, weren’t you and your family hiding in France during the war?”

“You shut up, Malfoy. I may be fine, but it matters to me that others suffered, not that you Slytherins would understand. People deserve revenge now.”

“Ah yes,” Malfoy chuckles, “Drew Hackleburst, bearer of revenge, defender of the people. I heard he always cared a lot about others suffering and really stepped up at that time there was actual danger. Wait, no. You went into hiding with your tail between your legs.”

Harry has got to admit, when that sharp tongue isn’t turned against him, the git is pretty funny. Obviously Drew doesn’t share that opinion as he immediately raises his fist to sock him in the eye. But Malfoy is quicker and ducks under his arm. Immediately, two others in the group advance on him threateningly.

“Oh well, would you look at that! It’s almost as if the ten of you were ganging up on me. I’m quite honoured, it’s not every day you get to experience the famous Gryffindor chivalry.”

The boys look ready to absolutely tear him apart, and Harry decides it’s high time to step in.

 “Do you really need to shit on Gryffindor every time?” He asks with a roll of his eyes, deceptively calm as he walks towards them.

For the first time since he first started crashing the attack-Malfoy parties, Malfoy looks relieved and almost happy at his appearance, a contrast to the whole fury thing he used to do. Which in itself is strange, considering that this is probably the most unharmed Harry has caught him so far. Usually he’s in much worse shape and greater need of help by the time Harry finds him.

 “You only have yourself to blame,” Malfoy tells him, his voice serious but there’s humour in his eyes. You inspired my dislike for Gryffindor the moment you won our first Quidditch game, and every loss I took since then has fuelled it.”

“You must really hate us by now then,” Harry smiles.

Malfoy sniffs and is about to answer when Drew cuts in.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s all nice and good to know that you’ve got Harry Potter on your side. Must have been quite a trick, huh, to get him to defend you and your mother. But you’re the only one who’s protected now, aren’t you?” He laughs. “Who’s taking care of your Death Eater whore of a mum?”

Malfoy’s smile is very, very dangerous.

“It’s interesting,” he says softly, “how you think I’m a danger to students and need to be incapacitated, yet feel secure in insulting my mother. Tell me, are you a hypocrite, or just a complete idiot?”

With a snarl, Drew lunges forward. He’s instantly thrown back against the wall, and falls to the ground with a loud crash. Harry rests an elbow on Malfoy’s shoulder, wand dangling daintily from his fingers, and looks at Drew’s slumped form with a smug expression.

“What? Didn’t you hear not to mess with the guy that took down Voldemort? Or did you miss out on the details while you were busy vacationing in France?”

The rest of the students look torn, half-willing to come to their leader’s aid and half too afraid to anger the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

“Take your baboon and go get some sleep, yeah?” Harry says, jutting his chin out to a collapsed Drew. “Leave talks of justice and revenge for the adults.”

They hesitate some more, angry scowls on their faces as they take in the blatant insults. One of the bigger guys’ jaw ticks. Harry sends him a pleasant smile and tightens his grip of his wand. Immediately the students spread, two of them carrying Drew with them as they hurry away from the Saviour and the Death Eater.

The second the corridor is empty, Malfoy’s smile drops from his face, leaving a snarl in its place.

“Merlin I want to kill them all. Threatening my mother like this, how dare they.” He cuts a sudden, intense look at Harry. “I need to let of some steam.”

Harry blinks. Why is he telling him this? And then he notices the hunger in Malfoy’s gaze, the feral twist to his mouth, the way his entire body seems to vibrate with tension. Oh. _Oh_. Harry swallows hard, trying and failing to come up with an appropriate response to that.

“Oh,” he ends up saying, breathy and eloquent as always.

But for once, Malfoy doesn’t seem to mind. His gaze just darkens, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, and they both quicken their pace towards the common room.

The second they’re in the room, Malfoy is on him, rough hands in his hair and a filthy kiss, all tongue and teeth. Harry spares a moment to be grateful that everyone has already gone to bed, and then Malfoy pushes him down on the sofa and he stops thinking. Malfoy’s thighs straddle him and he can’t help a groan at the feeling of Malfoy’s erection against his, the pressure so sweet.

“I want you to fuck me,” Malfoy says, dirty and wanton in his ear, “I want you to spread me open and fuck me until I can’t remember my own name. Fuck me so hard even after glamouring all the bruises away I won’t be able to forget, I’ll still feel you in me for days.”

“F-fuck,” Harry rasps, his hips stuttering at the rush of desire that runs through him. “Yes.”

“You were so hot. Talking down to them like that. I’m so mad oh my god.”

Harry grabs the back of his neck and pulls him down for another searing kiss as Malfoy’s hands run up and down Harry’s sides, fingers catching in the fabric of his robes.

“Off, off, off,” he mutters against Harry’s lips yet doesn’t let up the slightest bit.

Harry grabs his shoulder and shoves him back, hard. A gasp escapes Malfoy’s mouth but he doesn’t have time to get angry before Harry has taken off his robes and shirt in one swift motion and is undoing Malfoy’s. Their pants sound harsh and loud in the room, and seeing the way Malfoy’s lips part as he tries to breathe properly sends a dull thrum of want to Harry’s stomach. He attaches his mouth to the side of Malfoy’s jaw, drinking in the small gasps, and finishes taking off Malfoy’s robes. He’s shirtless underneath, his skin creamy and soft and Harry can’t think of anything he’d like more than to cover it up in bruises, colour the skin in possessive marks. Harry’s fingers dig into Malfoy’s hips. This is his. Their crotches brush against each other and Malfoy’s head falls back against the couch in a loud moan, leaving Harry to bite at his neck.

“That hurts, you git,” Malfoy grits out, sending him a murderous look, the effects of which are kind of nullified by how needy he looks, spread out half-undressed under Harry’s weight.

Harry answers his glare with a heated gaze of his own, nipping at the same spot and tasting blood. _All his_.

“Take everything off,” he says, pulling back to slip out of his pants quickly before watching Malfoy bare his legs.

And Harry realizes with a start that he’s never seen him completely naked before. He’s a sight, too pale and too skinny, and yet there’s something about the way his alabaster skin is just begging to be ruined, about the slight curves of his hips and his graceful legs…even the git’s _dick_ is pretty. He feels lightheaded. He glides his finger down the familiar neck, traces the side of his collarbone, and then down to circle a nipple. Malfoy lets a small whimper escape, and Harry spares a look at his face. He’s staring at Harry, grey irises swallowed by lust-blown pupils, and scowls when Harry smirks at him. But the smug smile slips as his hands continue down the chest and he feels the outline of small scars under his fingertips, the skin a bit rougher in criss-crosses over his torso.

They’re silvery, almost invisible if you don’t know what you’re looking for, and yet speak of crimson and life draining. Harry remembers blood pooling on tiles and dimly wonders if there will ever be a time that Malfoy and he can enjoy themselves without the past dragging them down. He looks up again, hopeless apologies on his lips because if the memory still makes _him_ nauseous, he can’t imagine what it must be like for Malfoy, and how the fuck can he let Harry touch him like this when–

Malfoy kisses him. It’s softer than it’s ever been, and his arms come around Harry’s neck in what’s almost a caress. _It’s okay_ , the kiss says. _It’s over now, and I forgive you._ Harry wants to protest but the way Malfoy melts against his lips, the way he softly bites down, the way his tongue drags slowly into his mouth…he can’t help but sink into it. The tension drains out of him, until nothing matters but this, like a pocket of stolen time, hot and soft and comfortable.

Draco lets out small noises against Harry, first content and then increasingly needy as their kiss progressively picks up the pace again. Draco puts up a fight for dominance, sucking his tongue and biting his lips, until Harry’s hand tightens on his hair and he lets out a moan. Harry immediately takes advantage and becomes more forceful in his kissing until Draco relents, turning pliant again as he lets Harry push him back down on the couch. Their hips align and Harry thrusts down and– Merlin, it feels _so good_ , and they rut against each other for a bit until Harry feels like he could come any time soon, pleasure crackling through his veins, and Draco scratches down his back.

“Please just, _fuck_ me, just do it now, fuck, fuck _please_ , Harry,” he babbles and he’s going to drive Harry completely out of his mind.

Harry somehow gathers enough strength to pull away and takes a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts. By the time he feels remotely ready to take things further without fucking _dying_ , Draco is looking up at him smugly. He has no idea if Draco has ever done this before, but in any case, it doesn’t look like he’s willing to put in any effort, raising an eyebrow and waiting for Harry to do everything like a prim princess. A prim princess with rosy cheeks, a messy hickey dripping blood on his neck and a flushed, leaking cock. Harry swallows hard and thanks his past self for reading up on gay sex after his bi awakening during the summer.

“Fuck you’re so pretty,” he whispers under his breath, and Draco almost _preens_ , and really Harry should have guessed that he’d have a praise kink.

He carefully takes hold of Draco’s legs and pulls them up before spreading his cheeks. He swallows hard and tries desperately to keep his composure as he stares at the small, pink asshole, and it shouldn’t be so damned attractive but it really, _really_ is, and Draco is digging his nails into Harry’s arms in mixed anticipation and impatience. Finally Harry mutters the cleaning and protecting spells before licking his lips and whispering the lubricating charm. Under him, Draco lets out a whimper.

Harry preps him slowly, carefully, trying not to hear Draco’s high keens and ‘please, harder’ lest he succumb to the need to just _take_. Instead he watches Draco fall apart as he pumps his fingers inside him, one then two and three, just a bit crooked to graze the spot that makes him moan so loud he’s afraid someone will hear. But he couldn’t cast a _Muffliato_ for the life of him right now, it takes all his concentration to just restrain himself and he doubts he could even remember the incantation. 

And then he finally, finally pushes in and the pleasure that shoots up in him has him paralyzed for a second, until Draco’s muffled cry of pain becomes fingernails dragging down his back and moans to please just get on with it. Harry sets a fast rhythm, hips thrusting hard against Draco’s, and the feeling of it, so tight and wet around him, makes him groan. His arms tremble with the effort to hold himself up above Draco and he’s biting his lips to prevent himself from just ramming into him because. This is so good. His self-control lasts for a total of about five minutes until Draco reaches up and bites his shoulder, savagely and out of nowhere, and Harry can’t help but slam into him. The sound Draco lets out as he hits his prostate dead on is downright pornographic, and something snaps in Harry. He pants harshly as he drives his hips into Draco relentlessly, his hands holding onto Draco’s sides so tight it will probably leave bruises, but they are both way past caring, selfishly chasing their own climax. Harry’s release hits him unexpectedly, and he almost blacks out from the sudden, sheer ecstasy that spreads up and down his body, completely sapping his energy. Draco wraps his hand around his own cock and strokes himself once, twice, before coming all over his torso.

“Holy shit,” Draco says, stunned, and his voice is raw from being so loud.

“Yeah,” Harry manages, mind still reeling.

They’re breathing hard, exhaustion seeping into their bones after the intensity of the sex. Harry exhales softly before pulling out and muttering a cleaning charm. Draco hums in thanks. He looks so fucked out, his long limbs spread across the sofa and almost vacant eyes.

“Potter,” he says after a bit of silence, and Harry is so startled he almost jumps.

It’s like reality crashing back down again, and really he should be used to it by now. He swallows against his dry throat and very decisively banishes the word Draco from his mind.

“What are we doing?”

The question takes him aback.

“Uh…we’re, having fun yeah?” He says, and doesn’t know why it sounds so unsure when it’s what he keeps tirelessly repeating to his friends.

He desperately searches Malfoy’s face for clues but it’s completely blank, eyes staring straight ahead, almost disinterested.

“It. Yeah. It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he adds, he _offers_ really, because Malfoy looks like he’d rather be anywhere else right now and Harry doesn’t want him to hate him and he doesn’t want this to stop. 

Who cares that the words taste a bit strange in his mouth?

“Definitely not,” Malfoy agrees, and his voice has gone a little flat, and suddenly Harry wonders if he said the complete wrong thing after all.

“I mean,” he struggles, “not that you don’t matter as a person, it’s just, I just meant, if you–”

“Potter, shut up.”

“I was just trying to explain why I said it like that. Of course you matter. It’s just–”

“You seem to be mistaken in thinking that I care,” Malfoy cuts in again, his voice the least expressive Harry has ever heard it, and yet there’s something utterly cold in the delivery. “Really, Potter? ‘You matter’? As I said, I needed to let off some steam. You were helpful. Thanks.”

He stretches lazily and pulls on his underwear and shirt, before grabbing the rest of his clothes. He barely spares Harry a glance before making his way towards the stairs.

“Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be catching up on my beauty sleep.”

 


	8. terrifying

**CHAPTER 8**

_“Every angel is terrifying.” - Duino Elegies, Rainer Maria Rilke_

 

The sound of quill scratching against parchment makes Draco grit his teeth. It feels like ants crawling on his skin and he sighs again. He’s been irritable recently, and he knows it’s unfair to his friends, especially since he has no legitimate reason to be, but he can’t help being so snippy and jumpy.

He hates himself for the way his heart dulls every time he remembers Potter’s words. It’s not like he expected anything else. He barely even wanted anything else, because really, what could the Golden Boy of the Wizarding World and the ex-Death Eater ever be? And yet he can’t help but be bitter over how once again, he’s proven to be inferior, not worth more than sex to Harry Potter. It makes him think of all the rumours that he fucked the Saviour to get his mother and himself out of an Azkaban sentence, and he can’t help the disgust running down his spine. He really did get on his knees for the Saviour. He really did go and lust after the one person he should never want to lay eyes on again, and he let him use him all over again, and Draco can’t even be angry about it. It’s not like Potter knows how conflicted he is. It’s not like he can guess how much of a mess he is, full of spite and self-hate and resentment and that sodding pride that won’t let him live.

So yes, he’s a bit on edge. And the worst is, despite how confused the entire thing makes him, he can’t stop himself. They’ve had sex twice since that conversation happened, hand-jobs in an abandoned classroom after Defence and a lazy fuck in small hours of the morning in the common room. He’s hurting himself and doesn’t know how to stop. Doesn’t want to. Which, all matters considered, isn’t news at all.

Draco lets out a sigh for the hundredth time this class, and vaguely tries to remember the name of the twenty first goblin general during the 1600s war. He’s going to fail history so badly.

 

* * *

 

 

They’re sweaty, and Draco is still recuperating after his mind-numbing orgasm, but he can’t keep his mouth off Potter’s tattoos, licking and suckling at the inked skin. The beautiful designs are going to drive him crazy.

“You really like the tattoos, huh?” Potter says, amused and a hint smug.

Draco bites down hard, once, causing him to gasp out in pain, before meeting his eyes.

“Tell me about them,” he demands.

Potter hesitates before letting out a soft sigh.

“It’s not even like I have that many,” he mutters with a roll of his eyes.

They’re in his room, privacy in charms in place, having retreated there while everyone was outside enjoying the nice weather. He pushes the covers away and points at the once on his right side.

“Prongs. Padfoot. Moony. The nicknames my father and his friends gave themselves. They were such dorks, really. Running around and getting into trouble and thinking they were the best. The friends would be Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, by the way,” he adds in an almost challenging tone, looking up to Draco as if waiting for him to show his disgust.

Instead, Draco can’t help but snort.

“Getting into trouble and thinking they were the best, now why does that ring a bell? Isn’t that what you, Granger and Weasley did?”

To his surprise, Potter doesn’t take offence. He smiles wryly at his words, and there’s a softness in his face as he looks back down at the tattoo.

“I guess I took after them. There was also Peter Pettigrew, but he doesn’t deserve to be there with them, for obvious reasons. Anyway, they designed this map of this castle - I’ll show you one day maybe - and you can see who and where everyone is by their footprints.”

Draco looks at the swirling pattern and wonders what it would have been like to have a similar map of the Malfoy Manor during the war. How many terrified nights he may have avoided. He licks his lips and nods at Potter to continue.

“The lily is for my mum. It’s the first one I got,” he says, tracing the design briefly before tapping at the snitch over his heart. “And this is for victory. My first victory and my last. As well as the last time I saw my loved ones,” he adds, a strange, wistful look on his face.

It doesn’t make any sense but Draco feels like questions wouldn’t be welcome. His gaze falls to the bed again, a strange weight hanging in the air around them. After a couple of minutes of silence, he wonders if Potter is waiting for him to leave. The question settles uncomfortably in his stomach.

 “How’s your mother?” Potter asks instead.

Draco is a bit startled but careful not to let it show. He grips the sheets.

“She’s fine. She’s grateful to you,” he adds, stealing a look at Potter, who sends him a rueful smile.

“Which you’re not.”

Draco shrugs.

“I’m a lot of things. Grateful isn’t at the top of the list.”

“No? What is?”

Angry. Longing. Resentful. Hurt.

“Aroused,” he deadpans, and Potter grins mischievously.

“Well, that I can work with.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, his body already taking interest at the promising look Potter sends him, all smugness and confidence. And _Merlin_ , is Draco weak for that confident power.

“Can you now?”

“Ready for round two?” Harry just says and barely waits for an answer before dragging Draco into a deep kiss.

Draco responds instantly, parting his lips and bringing his arms around Potter’s neck. He drags his fingers lightly down the muscled back, loving the way Potter shivers when his tattoo moves in response to Draco’s touch. Potter grabs his ass in response, pulling him close abruptly, and Draco can’t help the whimper that escapes him when their half-hard crotches brush against each other. He’s still sensitive from the first round, yet he gets riled up just as fast, growing restless as Potter leaves hot kisses down his jaw, to his neck and the crook of his shoulder. Draco’s hands wander down the broad expanse of Potter’s back, then up his torso, fleetingly playing with his nipples until Potter lets out a muffled groan against his skin.

The victorious feeling of finally making Potter let out a sound mixes with the arousal pooling in his stomach, and when Potter’s thigh makes its way between his legs, he can’t help but rut a bit against it.

“So eager,” Potter chuckles into his skin, somewhere around his collarbones, and Draco manages to let out an indignant huff while also driving his hips into the delicious hardness of his thigh.

“I don’t think you have any room for being all high and mighty here considering your obsession with my neck.”

“It’s a sexy neck.”

“Of course it is,” Draco huffs, and then whimpers because Potter has put his hands back on his ass and is dragging him ever so slowly against his thigh. “everything–oh _fuck_ , everything about me is sexy. But at this rate I’ll soon have more hickeys than actual skin.”

“Wouldn’t that be great?” Potter grins. “They’re so pretty.”

Draco rolls his eyes.

“You pretentious ass,” he mutters before forcefully stopping the movement of his hips – more difficult that one would have thought.

Instead he decides to turn the tables on Potter, and quickly makes his way down his torso, sucking on the nipples, biting at the subtly defined abs, before taking his sweet time exploring Potter’s hips. He’s always been on the thinner side, so the V is pronounced, hip bones jutting out below the tight muscles of his abdomen. Draco trails kisses down the dip of his hips, nibbles at the hipbones and licks lavishly down the dip of his pelvic bone. This time around Potter can’t keep quiet, and Draco’s own body jolts with pleasure every time Potter lets out a moan. They’re not high and loud like Draco’s, yet there’s the same amount of desperation in the low, raspy tone. It’s pure sin, the kind of thing that makes Draco think that if you could capture and put a sound in a bottle, he could sell it as an aphrodisiac and make a fortune.

By the time he’s done having his fun, Potter is fully hard and his fingers are grasping the sheets on each side of him tight, presumably to stop himself from thrusting his hips right into Draco’s face. Draco appreciates the sentiment, but he can’t help but wish seeing him completely lose control. So he stops biting at one of the now innumerable hickeys he’s made and looks up. Potter lets out such a wounded, bereft sound at the lack of contact that Draco can’t help grinning devilishly. He looks a mess too, his eyes almost as dark as his unruly curls, muscles straining in his attempts to stay still.

“Well then, come get me,” Draco says.

Potter surges forward and roughly bites at Draco’s lower lip before pushing him back against the bed. Draco’s surprised yelp quickly turns into a groan when Potter’s finger enters him. He must have cast a lubrication, because it’s hot and wet and the fact that once again Potter uses non-verbal and wandless spells like it’s nothing makes him want to scream. Instead he stares wide-eyed at Potter’s face, the reddened lips, the dark brows pulled in concentration as he eases another finger past Draco’s entrance. Draco gasps, his arm shooting out and grabbing the headboard for support as Potter scissors him open. He never would have thought it could be so satisfying, being stretched open, being filled by fingers, but it feels like he’s being taken care of, Potter’s low praises washing over him, and he’s so hard it hurts.

And then Potter crooks his fingers the slightest bit and hits the spots that send lightning up Draco’s spine. He arches off the bed, a cry at his lips, and Potter smirks before thrusting into it again and again until Draco’s choking on his moans and his cock is leaking. He feels dizzy, pleasure assaulting his senses and blurring everything. He’s a complete mess as he’s fingered relentlessly, almost viciously, and suddenly there are tears running down his face and he’s distantly aware that he’s talking, _begging_ , incoherently both asking for more and for it to stop because this is torture, and he’s probably not making sense but he just hopes Harry will _get it_.

He does, because he jabs his fingers into Draco’s prostate one last time before moving away, pulling out and taking all the warmth with him. Draco’s ass clenches around nothing and he keens, because what was he thinking, this is so much worse. But Harry is there so fast, shushing him and running his hands down his chest.

“You want this?”

“Yes, yes, please, _god_.”

Harry says something under his breath that might have been a spell or a curse but to be honest Draco doesn’t care, he’s too busy trying not to cry as he waits for Harry to fill him up so he can’t stop feeling so damned empty. Harry finally, finally pushes in, letting out a low groan and whispering praises and playing with Draco’s hair. He bottoms out and a raw sob is wrenched out of Draco at the ecstasy that rushes through him. One of Harry’s hands grabs at his hips while he threads the other through Draco’s hair, just rough enough to pull an appreciative groan out of him.

“Yes, Merlin, Harry please,” he manages to stutter out, before Harry starts fucking for real and he loses all capacity for speech.

They’re both already so far gone that it takes only a couple of thrusts before they fall apart. The tension in Draco snaps suddenly, violently, and his release is so intense that he blacks out for a second. By the time he comes to, Harry is slowly pulling out. He’s trembling, Draco somehow notices, arms shaky as he uses his wand to spell the come away from their bodies. Then he collapses next to Draco, hair plastered to his face with sweat and still trying to catch his breath. Draco watches him, feeling like he’s on another plane as his mind hasn’t come down, the aftershocks of his orgasm still running through him. He feels like there’s a film of plastic between him and reality, and he shivers.

Automatically, Harry wraps his arms around him and pulls him into his warmth. Harry’s chest is solid but soft against him, and as he says sweet nothings in his ear, Draco drifts off.

 

* * *

 

 

When Draco wakes up, he’s in his own bed, tucked in soft blankets that he’s used so little they smell of sterile cleanness. He stands up on slightly shaky legs and locks himself in the bathroom. He doesn’t even want to see what he looks like right now and bypasses the mirrors completely – a first, really – to take a shower. The warm water is bliss, soothing his muscles, and he wills himself not to dwell on any feelings he might have about what happened earlier. Potter and him are fuck buddies, they had sex, Potter helped him into bed and left him there and it’s fine. It’s normal. That’s what fuck buddies do, Draco reasons, except he has no actual idea what fuck buddies do, because he’s never had casual sex with anyone, in fact he’s never had _any_ kind of sex with anyone before this, and he doesn’t know how normal it is for his chest to feel so cold at Potter’s absence beside him in bed.

He only catches a look at himself once he’s out of the shower, and immediately draws in a sharp breath. He should be used to the marks Potter leaves on him every time they hook up, but it’s never been as visible as now. There’s a line of red bruises going from right under his jaw down the left side of his neck and down to his collarbones. Other hickeys are peppered around his throat, some sucked onto his right collarbone and his torso. His gaze drops to see a small one at his hips, and he doesn’t even remember Potter making one there, probably already too lost to pleasure. Draco swallows hard and grabs his wand from his pile of clothes, points it at his neck, and hesitates. For some reason, some part of him really, really doesn’t want the traces Potter left on him to disappear. He shouldn’t even remotely consider this, yet he slowly lowers the wand. He can taste bile in his throat at his own weakness. How can he be so attached to some dumb hickeys?

Still, he ends up simply hiding them by wearing a turtle necked sweater, and hopes no one will question it as he walks down the stairs to the common room. Pansy sends him a strange look as he walks towards her and tries to ignore the lingering pain in his backside.

“Is it me or do you keep disappearing these days?” She says, raising an eyebrow.

“I was sleeping. I don’t sleep well during the nights.”

She sighs.

“I know…Neville says you’re never in bed when he wakes up during the night after having a bad dream. He’s tried to wait up for you, you know? But he always fell asleep first.”

Draco shrugs.

“I don’t feel comfortable sleeping in the dorm, but it’s nothing to worry about. Also, since when is it _Neville_?” He mocks her slightly, ignoring the fact that apparently Longbottom cares enough to worry and wait up for him. “First you’re complimenting his chest, now you’re trading secrets? Have you really sunk to consorting with Gryffindors after all?”

“If you paid any kind of attention during the parties, you’d notice that Neville and I have become friends.”

“ _Friends_ , huh?” Draco smirks, and Pansy snorts.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s so taken by Hannah Abbot that it hurts my eyes. Which you wouldn’t know about either, I guess, considering that you’re always so focused on Potter that anything else might as well just not exist.”

And Draco is used to Pansy’s light hearted teasing, but this time it hits a little too close to home and he clenches his teeth together, looking away. Which, of course, results in him looking right at Potter’s crowd. He’s not there, Draco notices immediately, and the knot in his stomach disappears just as disappointment tingles his skin. Relief, he inwardly corrects himself. Relief, because all things Potter that are not related to sex or hate should be eradicated.

Weasley is playing chess with Anthony Goldstein, and Granger is huddled against him. As Draco watches, Weasley’s knight knocks down one of Goldstein’s fools and Weasley grins before kissing his girlfriend with a great deal of enthusiasm and tongue. The room suddenly comes to a standstill, everyone staring at the couple.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen them do PDA,” Pansy says, sounding a bit stunned herself.

“I think I actually puked a little in my mouth,” Draco says in mild horror.

“Charming. Time for us to get dinner, yeah?”

Draco lets Pansy drag him away, all the while complaining about how much extra dessert he deserves after being subjected to this.

“My eyes will never be the same,” he insists when Pansy tells him to shut it for the fifth time.

“Eat your potatoes.”

“Potatoes,” Draco sniffs and lets a shudder rake his body. “My eyes deserve better. _I_ deserve better.”

“Yeah, you’re really suffering a lot, aren’t you?” Pansy deadpans, her mouth full of salad.

Draco wrinkles his nose at her pointedly before continuing his whiny rant.

“I really am! I’m hurting everywhere! That kiss burned my eyes and then led a pathway of pain from my face,” he says, tracing the invisible pattern with a finger, “down to my heart and my feet, Pans, my _feet_ are hurting because of it.”

But when he looks up at her, she isn’t commiserating with his poor feet. In fact, her eyes are fixed on his throat.

“Did it hurt there?” She asks, pointing her chin at where the turtle neck fails to hide the shade of a hickey.

Draco stills.

“Did it make those appear?”

Draco is so, so very still. Pansy raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him and gets closer, and he’s too shocked by the sudden turn of events to protest. She tugs at his collar and peers down his neck before whistling softly.

“He really went for it, didn’t he?”

And the thing is, she doesn’t sound amused or teasing like she normally would when one of their friends gets some action. Instead she sounds careful, unsure, and a little worried. A little sorry for him. Draco somehow manages to get a hold of himself and moves away from her touch.

“Anyway, my _feet_ , Pansy. Down to my toes and toenails.”

“Your poor toenails,” she coos, playing along, but she still sounds too gentle, and when it’s finally time for dessert, she gives him her extra whipped cream cupcake.

 

* * *

 

 

Someone pulls a blanket over Draco, and he mumbles a sleepy ‘thanks’. The person chuckles.

“You’re welcome.”

Draco is instantly awake, staring wide-eyed at Potter, who raises his hands in a show of innocence.

“What? It’s getting cold, you’re going to catch your death sleeping so close to the window.”

“I hate that expression,” Draco says, burrowing himself deeper into the delicious warmth of the blanket. “Death isn’t a disease you catch.”

Once again, Potter laughs briefly.

“Believe me, I’m aware.” There’s a small pause, and then: “Why do you come down here, if you can sleep? It doesn’t seem like you have nightmares or anything, what’s so special about this window?”

Draco blames his sleepiness and the warmth in his chest fully for what he says next.

“I don’t belong with the rest of them in the dorms. They’re all…heroes and victims. And I’m the one who fought on the other side. The one that tortures and kills without flinching.”

“You don’t kill without flinching.”

“That’s not the point,” Draco snaps. “The point is, I’m the bad guy. I’m the one who ran my mouth about how beneath me everyone was, and when the time came where I could make a choice and become a better person, I followed my father’s footsteps and helped complete maniacs take over the Ministry.”

Potter lets that sink in for a little, and the silence allows Draco to take a deep breath and calm down. He hugs the blanket closer, ignoring the way his jaw is trembling.

“I thought you knew better,” Potter finally says, frowning. “What about when you defend yourself against people in the school? Do you actually think they’re right?”

Draco scoffs.

“Just because I don’t let some hypocritical idiots feel superior to me for doing nothing doesn’t mean I don’t know every way that I fucked up.”

“So every time I tell those ‘hypocritical idiots’ that the Wizengamot saw you were innocent and ruled in your favour, and that that should be that, you don’t believe me? You actually _agree_ with them?”

And Draco can’t believe that he’s saying this, but he feels powerless in front of Potter’s honest concern, the truth pulled out of him. It’s strange putting words to the conflicting emotions that have raged within him and tortured him for so long. It kind of feels like learning to breathe again.

He shrugs.

“The judgement of a corrupt court with a soft spot for the Saviour is not the forgiveness I need. And I don’t deserve the one I need.”

“Everyone deserves forgiveness, Draco.”

Potter’s use of his first name makes his breath hitch, and the conviction in his voice sends tremors through his chest because he says it so simply, as if it really were that easy. Draco looks Potter straight in the eye.

“But how do I forgive myself, when there is someone who did absolutely everything right?”

Potter’s mouth drops. It’s a while before any of them speaks. Astonished and oh-so-intense green eyes stare at Draco, who holds the gaze as determinedly as he can. Finally, Potter drops his head with the ghost of a smile.

“I didn’t do everything right.”

Draco keeps staring, a touch disbelieving now.

“Even without mentioning the ridiculous amount of people that died for me,” Potter blinks quickly at that, “I was incredibly selfish. And I left you with some nasty scars,” he adds with a bitter smile before exhaling. “When I told you about the tattoos yesterday, I didn’t tell you about the phoenix.”

“I assumed it was for Dumbledore?”

“Dumbledore of course,” Potter nods and half laughs, but it’s just as bitter as his smile. He licks his lips, focuses back on Draco. “You know, that night, I had no plan. I had no ulterior motive when I went to give myself up. I was just going to die.”

Draco feels like his feet were just cut from underneath him. He has no idea what this has to do with Potter’s tattoo, but the thought that Potter just calmly walked in that forest expecting to die, it’s just. It’s just beyond him. He can’t even imagine it. Honestly, it makes him want to cry, and how does he dare say that he isn’t the most selfless human and then drop things like that.

“Potter–” He half attempts to speak.

“Call me Harry.”

His throat is so, so dry.

“Harry I don’t understand. If you didn’t have a plan to stay alive, how did you?”

“I didn’t,” he says, and he shrugs. He fucking _shrugs_. “I died that night.”

“But my mother. She told me, she– you wouldn’t _be_ here!”

“Yes, your mother really did lie to Voldemort. I was alive again by the time she had to check my pulse.”

Draco is so shocked and confused that he doesn’t even react to Harry calling the former Dark Lord by his name.

“ _What?_ ”

“All part of Dumbledore’s plan, of course.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“It’s a long story, really,” Harry half-smiles. “But when he killed me, I ended up in some middle ground. I could choose to move on and die, or I could come back to life.”

“This is insane,” Draco whispers.

“Any more insane than magic? I was raised by Muggles, you know. I’ve kind of learned to take these insane things in stride.”

Draco can’t wrap his mind around it and can feel himself burning with questions, but he can also feel that it’s not the right time, so he just nods to let Harry get to his point.

“You know, I kinda wanted to stay dead.”

Draco stares.

“It’s nice, being dead. No responsibilities, no psychopath murderer with a vendetta.” He half-smiles again. “No pain.”

Draco swallows, hard.

“You say you’re a coward, Draco, but wasn’t I worse? When you did your best to protect your family and do what you could not to get killed and help, people called you weak, but at least you were fighting. I hid from all my friends and went to die to stop the war. But I knew that even if Voldemort got his way, my friends would keep fighting and be murdered. What did I do? I just gave up, when even Colin Creevey went back to fight.” Harry’s hands are trembling. “He died, you know. He died _fighting_ , and I just gave up. I gave myself up and when I was finally dead, fuck, I had an actual choice. And I wanted to stay dead. Give up for good and just be left alone.”

He finally looks back up, all tortured green eyes and painful smile. Draco feels something at the back of his throat that tastes a lot like tears.

“Tell me how being born in a family with the wrong alliances and fighting to save yourself and your parents is worse than having all the best friends to help you on the right path and yet wanting to give up and die.”

“What–what made you change your mind?” Draco finally manages to get out.

“Nothing. But I had the only answer to kill Voldemort and my friends were getting hurt, so I came back to finish the job.”

Draco lets that sink in.

“You mean you sacrificed your life to save us…and you also sacrificed your death?”

Harry has a disbelieving laugh.

“How is that your conclusion?”

“What’s the phoenix for?” Draco asks instead of indulging him in his ridiculous self-hate trip.

“Going up in flames and being reborn. Dying and living. Never escaping the pain.”

“That’s a sad tattoo.”

“It’s hope too. Hope is just not always happy.”

Draco’s fingers twitch with the desire to trace the beautiful, fiery lines of the phoenix. Wants to make sure by the time he’s done kissing his way down the swirling patterns, he’ll have coloured it in the beautiful things he sees in Harry. Harry who after all he’s done somehow thinks he’s to blame for wanting a break from his endless sufferings, Harry who burns so brightly it hurts Draco’s eyes yet he can’t help seeking his warmth, Harry who is the best person the world has ever been graced with and doesn’t even have the decency to realize it.

Something must have shown in his eyes because Harry clears his throat, speaks so softly:

“You don’t look like you hate me right now.”

“I don’t,” Draco says.

 _I never hated you,_ he doesn’t say _. I just hate the power you have over me_.

 

* * *

 

 

Later, when Harry has gone to sleep on his armchair and his warming charms envelop the room with his comforting magic, Draco cries his heart out.


	9. dreams

**CHAPTER 9**

_“If you are a monster,_

_how come you carry stardust in the palm of your hand?_

_How come the stars kiss your skin_

_like you are made of something holy?_

_You are the stuff of dreams, darling._

_Only the heavens hold beings like you.” – you see a demon when you are actually an angel, K.S_

 

“Heard you gave the entire common room a heart attack yesterday?” Harry teases Ron, who blushes, keeping his eyes trained on the Quidditch pitch. It’s the first match of the year, Ravenclaw against Slytherin, and while Hermione is too busy with studying to show up, she made them promise to sport colours from both houses. As a result, Harry has on a set of deep blue robes, an acid green scarf and small snakes all over his skin, spell courtesy of Ron, who’s wearing a green Weasley jumper under pastel blue robes he borrowed from Padma and a horrible eagle hat. Harry fully blames Luna for the last one.

“I mean,” his best friend says slowly. “I don’t wanna say that Seamus got to me the other day, but…I realized that Mione and me aren’t as showy as other couples in public. And you know, that’s sort of who we are, we’ve been friends for so long. But you know how I am, I got a bit insecure, so I talked to her about it. She agreed with me being as affectionate as I wanted in public cause she loves me,” he concludes with a wide grin.

Harry pats his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you for talking to her about it. And both of you for finding a solution together. Merlin knows that you haven’t always been the best at communication,” he grins, angry yellow birds coming to mind.

“Tell me about it.”

“So, shocking everyone was your happy ending, hmm?”

“Nah, Hermione’s the happy ending. That was just an added plus.”

“You’re disgusting,” Harry laughs, before they both let out an exclamation when the Ravenclaw team scores a particularly impressive goal.

When the match ends (Ravenclaw 90 - Slytherin 160) they walk back to the common room and are greeted with the sight of the students that stayed behind to study. Padma, Mandy and Lisa are sprawled across the floor, books everywhere, while Hermione and Sue Li are quizzing each other with rapid fire questions. In a corner, Terry is reciting something to an enthusiastic Angela. However, she seems less enthusiastic about his lecture and more about the fact that she’s painting a recalcitrant Draco’s nails.

Ron makes a beeline for Hermione while Harry hesitates a bit before going towards Draco. He definitely doesn’t think about the implications of him doing so. Both Terry and Angela send him a smile, the former in the middle of a rant about Muggle transportation methods, the latter showing off Draco’s nails. Each is coloured differently, forming a strangely glittery rainbow.

“He lost a bet,” she laughs.

Draco still doesn’t look up, seeming mortified and a little irritated.

“Slytherin won,” Harry says.

This time, Draco’s head snaps up. He seems surprised to see him, and opens his mouth to say something, before he realizes what Harry is wearing and then just keeps staring open-mouthed.

“I feel so much better about my nails now,” he finally says.

Harry rolls his eyes and takes off the dreadfully bright green scarf.

“I’ll go change, you keep this beauty. As for the snakes,” he sniffs in a poor imitation of Draco’s disdainful behaviour, “it’s a style.”

When he comes back down, wearing sweatpants and an oversized tee shirt because he honestly can’t be bothered to make an effort, Terry has obviously decided that this study group isn’t concentrated enough because he’s moved on to discussing something with Lisa. Harry steals his spot on the couch. Angela is now arguing about the difference between trains and metros with Draco, who has slung the hideous scarf around his neck and somehow manages to make it look high fashion. Figures.

“Actually, metros aren’t always underground,” he cuts in. “Although the ones in London are.”

“That’s what I thought!” Angela exclaims. “But then what’s the difference with trains if they both have,” she steals a look at her book, “‘rails’? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well here’s the thing,” he says, settling a bit deeper into the sofa, “metros are for getting around within one city, whereas trains will take you from city to city. It’s more a difference of scale than anything.”

He puts his arm on the back of the sofa, getting comfortable as he tries his best to answer Angela’s questions. She huddles closer to him, Draco’s nails all but forgotten. Draco sends them both an incredulous look before also scooting over.

“Is this actually happening,” he mutters under his breath before getting off the sofa and settling on the floor in front of it instead, leaning back against their knees.

Harry has to repress a laugh at the obvious demand for attention. Draco’s like a grumpy cat, all prickly and annoying but still in need of physical affection. He must be confused too. It’s strange enough that Harry comes to him outside of their sexual encounters and helps him with homework, but it must be even stranger that he ends up mostly talking to Draco’s friend instead of him.

Harry mindlessly reaches out to run a hand through the blond hair, deciding that he doesn’t care about the entire common room seeing him so intimate with Draco. It’s not like they don’t know some sort of thing is going on between them anyway.

“My hair’s going to get greasy,” Draco complains at the touch.

But the instant Harry puts his hand away, he stubbornly grabs it and puts it back onto his head, which, with the added effect of the ugly scarf, the ridiculous nails and the scowl on his face, fully completes the image of an immature toddler. This time he can’t hold the chuckle in, and neither can Angela, as she interrupts her own question with fond giggles.

Still Harry lets his fingers play with Draco’s silky hair, the way he so often does after sex to help him come down, and the effect is instantaneous, Draco’s head falling backwards to fully rest on his lap. Harry rolls his eyes. Truly a cat. Next thing you know he’ll start purring.

They spend almost an hour like this, Harry doing his best to explain Muggle mechanics to a curious Angela and a half-sleeping Draco before one of Angela’s friends swoops in to drag her away. Harry stops his ministrations to Draco’s hair and looks around the room. Apart from a couple of girls reading and Neville playing a card game with Anthony, everyone has left, presumably for lunch. He stands from the couch and helps a sighing Draco up. Draco spares one more look at his nails before whispering a soft ‘sod it’ and following Harry out the common room and towards the Great Hall.

“You might want to get rid of those ridiculous markings,” he says, pointing at the small green snakes littering Harry’s skin.

“What?” Harry gasps. “But those are snakes, I thought you’d like them. Besides, aren’t you into tattoos?”

“I’m into beautiful body art, not the result of Weasley’s half-botched experiments in charms.”

“My tattoos are beautiful, huh?”

Draco’s cold glare doesn’t quite manage to erase Harry’s smug smile, and he’s in decidedly good spirits as he makes his way towards the Gryffindor table.

He’s barely had time to wave at a distracted Hermione and take place at the table before Anthony plops down on the chair next to him and grabs his arm.

“We need to talk.” 

“What’s up?” Harry asks, pouring himself some pumpkin juice.

“Are you having a threesome with Angela and Draco?”

Harry promptly chokes on his drink.

“Wha–” He coughs, wipes away the juice from his chin and tries again, his voice determinedly croaky. “Excuse me, what?”

“Well I saw you guys sitting together, and you’ve been doing…stuff with Draco, and Draco constantly flirts with Angela. So I was wondering…”

“I was helping them study, Anthony. I don’t see Angela that way at all, and I’m pretty sure Draco is gay.”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

Anthony looks suspiciously annoyed at that, which is truly a first. He’s usually on Seamus levels of excitement and good humour. Harry narrows his eyes.

“Why do you care so much anyway?”

“I don’t! I just, I’m just curious.”

“Do you, by any chance, have a crush on Angela?”

By now, everyone around them is listening in. Neville is leaning forwards over the table, Hermione has abandoned her conversation with Lavender, Dean and Seamus are silent, and all stare as a blush starts forming at Anthony’s cheeks.

“Oh my god,” Parvati whispers. “With what Padma told me about you, I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Does anyone have a camera?” Seamus adds.

“Shhh,” Hermione frowns at everyone. “We don’t need to make fun of him, the fact that he’s finally been defeated by a girl and that he thinks that Draco is actual competition is ridiculous enough as it is… No, what we need. What we need is a plan.”

There’s a considering silence of a few seconds before the table explodes with suggestions, everyone talking over each other and completely ignoring the food appearing under their noses.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do…”

Harry watches the furiously blushing Anthony and smirks into his glass.

 

* * *

 

 

December comes with a heavy snow, the 7thand 8thyears’ excitement tempered by their upcoming midterm exams. Harry tries to visit the Thestrals every few days, but it becomes harder as he desperately tries to juggle homework, tutoring younger students in Defence, exam preparation and hook-ups with Draco. Thank Merlin there are 8thyear parties to unravel some of that tension.

Harry lets out a full-bodied laugh as the blueberry hits Padma right in the forehead. She rolls her eyes at the poor aim, and Dean downs the shot as punishment before giving her a strawberry as consolation price. She narrows her eyes at the circle of people as she pops it into her mouth.

“Okay…Ron, balance a blueberry on your nose for more than thirty seconds. If you lose, you have to sing your favourite Celestina Warbeck song.”

The room erupts in a mix of protests. It seems to be cut cleanly in half between the ones complaining about the horrible songs and others affirming that singing Warbeck is a pleasure and in no way a punishment.

“It will be for us!” Harry exclaims. “Ron sings almost as off-key as his mother.”

He’s instantly pelted with fruits.

“We took you in!” Ron yells. “We gave you a home and food! I don’t deserve this hate! _I stole a flying car_ and _broke into your bedroom_ for you.”

“You broke into his bedroom?” Seamus waggles his eyebrows. “That is _not_ straight.”

“Harry has sex with Malfoy every other day of course he’s not straight,” Dean huffs.

“Wait, he does?”

“Seriously?”

“Where’s Malfoy? We need confirmation.”

Meanwhile, Harry is still trying to huddle behind his bottle of Firewhiskey. Ron has already thrown all the blueberries so he’s upgraded to apples, and getting hit by apples hurts much more than one would imagine.

“My mother _knit_ you a _Christmas sweater_!”

“Celestina Warbeck deserves to be drowned in her cauldron!”

“Who tops and who bottoms?”

“Don’t be stupid, obviously–”

The chaos is finally interrupted as both Hermione and Pansy exclaim ‘guys please tone it down’ and ‘shut the fuck up you gits’ respectively. They pause a second in acknowledgement of each other before Hermione raises her voice.

“ _Ronald Weasley_.”

There’s immediately silence.

“If you don’t stop attacking Harry this instant, you can forget all about my Transfiguration notes.”

Ron stops mid-movement.

“But he didn’t appreciate the Weasley sweaters,” he whines.

“Can you blame him,” Anthony mumbles under his breath, promptly receiving an elbow in the side from Neville.

“Neither did you Ron. You always hate on the sweaters.”

“Again, can you blame him?”

Ron pauses to consider Hermione’s words and Harry chances a look over the chair. Anthony and Neville are bickering while the rest of the room is staring in turn at Hermione and Ron. The earlier subject of gossip has Harry looking for Draco in the crowd, but before he can find him, his eyes fall on Pansy. She immediately loses her smile, and he pouts. For some reason or other, she’s been cold towards him lately. Not that they were ever best friends but still, he doesn’t know what he did to her. If anything she should apologize on behalf of her best friend for making Harry keep forgetting that it’s just sex and that his constant need to seek Draco out is not a good thing. And anyway, where’s Draco? Harry hasn’t heard his snotty voice since the party began, and it’s not like he wants to or that he misses it or anything, but still, it’s strange that he hasn’t spoken up at least once, with how needy for attention he–

An apple hits Harry’s temple straight on, and he collapses to the ground.

“ _Ron_!” He hears Hermione yell.

His ears are ringing strangely as people press around him, asking if he’s okay and if he needs a spell or something. He groans and reaches out with his hand.

“Firewhiskey.”

Seamus hands it to him and he gulps down a quarter of the bottle. Seamus is good. Seamus is reliable. Seamus also complains about how he’s not getting as much sex as Harry and how unfair it is that Harry and Draco are out for his spot as the certified gay™ (he said the ™ out loud, yes) of 8thyear but mostly he’s reliable. Also, that will all change once Dean has finished his initiation.

“Dean how far are you into your initiation?”

“Is he concussed?” Dean asks.

“He’s two thirds in,” Seamus says.

“Good, that’s good. What about Anthony and Angela, how far are we in the plan?”

There’s another silence as Harry blinks. There’s some hair caught in his eyelashes and he bristles at it, drinking some more from the bottle.

“What plan?” Angela finally asks delicately.

“The plan to make you fall in love with him?”

It’s so silent you could have heard a pin drop. Everyone is staring at him, and most of his friends with horrified faces. Harry blinks again.

“Or not? Not that plan. No plan. Never mind. There’s no plan.”

“Oh my god,” Ron exclaims, and throws the last apple at him.

He stops rambling and pouts instead. There’s another ‘oh my god’, this time sighed, before someone stands up and grabs his arm, pulling him off the floor and into their side. Harry looks up the slightest bit and is met with white-blond hair and a scowl. He grins, sliding his arm away from the firm grip and around Draco’s waist.

“Hey handsome,” he says, “wanna get out of here?”

Draco groans in something that might be embarrassment as the others laugh again, and blushes a soft pink.

“Look at you, so pink and cute,” Harry coos, and earns himself a sharp elbow in the ribs.

“I can’t believe this. You’re drunk and concussed.”

“Someone get him to bed,” Hermione sighs, and Harry blows her a kiss before turning back to Draco, a smirk forming on his lips.

“Will you join me there?”

“Bed. Now,” Draco grits out and starts to drag him out of the room.

“Ooh, I love it when you’re demanding,” Harry says, and something hits his arm hard.

He looks and sees that Ron has picked up the apples that were on the floor and is aiming a second one at him.

“Ron! Enough!” Hermione exclaims, before she’s cut off by Angela’s hesitant:

“Um guys? Can we go back to the plan thing?”

“No! Don’t worry!” Harry yells over his shoulder, struggling a little against Draco, “Anthony doesn’t have a crush on you! There was no plan! But remember–”

There’s a hand on his mouth and he’s guided more forcefully towards the exit.

“Honestly haven’t you done enough damage–”

“You don’t have any hickeys right now, so I’d say no?”

Draco groans in exasperation. The worst is, Harry wasn’t completely kidding when he said Draco showing his dominant side was hot. He looks good like this, jaw set and eyes narrowed, yet there’s a blush from the alcohol on his cheeks and his pale hair is falling so softly in bangs on his forehead, and Harry kind of wants to melt into him and just _take_.

“If this doesn’t work out well I’m murdering your saviour arse,” Anthony whispers furiously as he walks by, but he barely notices, too caught up in the way Draco’s lower lip pouts into his sneer.

Draco stops quite suddenly in front of the stairs and Harry takes the opportunity to latch his mouth onto his neck, kissing his way up to suck at the sensitive spot under his ear. He tastes like sweat and raspberry, like maybe Harry isn’t the only one who got thrown fruit at.

“Draco what are you doing?” Someone says. “You know this is a bad idea.”

“Pansy… You don’t understand.”

“No, I truly don’t understand why you’d do that to yourself–”

And then Harry sort of loses the track of the conversation, too busy peppering kisses at the underside of Draco’s jaw. It’s all sharp and pointy but the skin is so soft it’s like he’s never had to shave a day in his life. _Privileged bastard_ , Harry thinks even though it probably makes no sense, and he lets out a sort of quiet moan, heady on his sweet scent. There’s a rush of heat at the pit of his stomach and suddenly he can’t wait any longer. He leaves hot, open-mouthed kisses, teeth digging in the slightest bit, just the way Draco likes it. He can feel him trembling a little against his ministrations, and sucks at the reddened skin harder.

“Draco,” he breathes, “Draco come on.”

Draco’s fingers on his arms tighten and he inhales sharply. Harry lets out another groan against the side of his neck, and suddenly they’re moving again, past Pansy and up the stairs, to his room. Before Harry knows it, he’s been pushed onto Draco’s bed. He grabs a fistful of Draco’s shirt to tug him down to him into a brazen kiss. Something falls out of Draco’s collar, and Harry explodes into a fit of giggles against Draco’s mouth.

“Why are there raspberries in your shirt?”

“I told you, Pansy thought I was being too thirsty,” he rolls his eyes.

“Oh,” Harry lets go of him, tilting his head. “Do you want me to get some alcohol? I’m sure Kreacher will–”

“Not that kind of thirsty.”

It takes a moment to hit Harry, but when it does, a lazy, satisfied smirk spread on his face and he brings Draco’s mouth back to his.

“Go for it then. Show me what you wanted.”

Draco pushes him harder against the bed, hands hurriedly making their way to Harry’s pants, undoing them and grabbing Harry’s cock. He gives it a few tugs and it’s too fast, too rough. Harry chokes out a low moan.

“You’re being so vocal tonight, fuck, it drives me crazy.”

It’s quick and messy, the way they undress each other and explore their bodies, fingers digging into ribs, teeth digging into thighs, until Harry takes hold of the back of Draco’s neck, bracing him against the mattress before pushing his pelvis into the tight ring of his fingers. He lets out a stuttered breath of pleasure, Draco’s thumb tracing almost painful circles into his slit. When it starts getting too much, his mind blanking out and pleasure burning him up as his thrusts become frantic, he lets go of Draco’s neck to grab his dick. Draco’s head falls back but he’s immediately pulled into a rough kiss. It must strain his neck, but Harry can’t be bothered to care, he’s so close, he just needs this. He just needs Draco’s mouth on his. And he jerks off Draco in quick, tight movements, the best he can until his high hits him and he blanks out for a second.

When he regains control of his senses, Draco is panting under him, cock leaking with precome, and Harry kisses him again as he reaffirms his grip. Draco whines softly into Harry’s mouth as he thrusts into his hand, faster and faster before his rhythm falters and he’s just holding on by a thread, moans high and broken as Harry strokes him to completion. There are tears in his eyes by the time he comes, and his entire body shudders before he lets his head fall back onto the mattress, spent and exhausted.

It usually takes a while for Draco to come down, so Harry brushes his sweaty hair away from his forehead. He feels like his own muscles have melted with pleasure, and sucks lazy, barely-there hickeys onto Draco’s collarbones, kissing the bruises sweetly until Draco suddenly pushes him away with a sigh. Harry blinks in surprise but it’s like all his words have left him, so he just watches as Draco turns to his side on the bed, facing from him. He finds himself looking the elegant slope of Draco’s spine for a moment, and ignores the sharp sting in his heart as he turns to stares up at the ceiling, willing sleep to come quickly.

 

* * *

 

 

When he wakes up, Harry is surprised to see that Draco is still in bed next to him. He is considerably less surprised to see that they are the only ones in the room. He wonders briefly if it’s due to them hooking up there or simply because the partying went on for so long that no one really made it back to bed. He glances to the side and can’t hold back the gasp as he meets Draco’s intense gaze.

“Why didn’t you say you were awake? You scared me.” He narrows his eyes. “Also, how long have you been staring at me? Because that’s kind of creepy.”

Draco blinks.

“I’m actually staring at your hair,” he says in a deadpan voice. “I’m wondering how long I will be able to look at it before, I don’t know, cutting it all off. I’m testing my self-restraint.”

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah? What bothers you about it?”

Draco sits up suddenly, intense and passionate.

“It’s everywhere! It’s always so messy and tangled, and it’s always just a bit too long, and you never cut it! It’s always falling in your face and getting tangled with you _sodding_ eyelashes, how does that even happen? Why do you never do anything about it?”

Harry’s fairly sure his mouth has dropped open by this point. He’s never seen Draco this fired up since last time they tried to punch each other, and even then… He shrugs.

“I can’t cut it. Every time I do, it just grows back exactly like that the next morning.”

“Of course it does!”

Draco looks like he’d give anything for a pair of scissors right then. Also like he’d like to throw whatever he holds in his hands against the nearest wall. If Harry wasn’t disturbed waking up to find him staring at his face, he definitely is now.

“Wait! I have an idea,” Draco suddenly breathes, and he bends outside the bed to fish something out of the pocket of his discarded slacks. “It’s a barrette,” he says, eyes wide and demented, “I stole it from Angela.”

“Isn’t it just called a hairclip? And why would you steal it from– _ow_.”

Draco has taken hold of Harry’s hair and is somehow pulling it all into a knot right on top of his head. He pouts in concentration, eyes still slightly crazed, and struggles to clip the _barrette_. Finally there’s a small click and he pulls back, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.

“There,” he says, gleeful. “No more hair everywhere. I mean you look absolutely atrocious, but at least it’s more orderly.”

He stares up at Harry and he’s so obviously ridiculously proud of himself, blinking up as if expecting praise, that Harry finds himself unable to fake annoyance. In fact, he can’t even help the smile breaking out on his face, fondness overflowing to the point he feels his chest has just turned to honey, warm and sweet for the boy in front of him. Draco tuts.

“I hate your hair.”

“You’re obsessed with my hair.”

“Yes. Obsessed with hate.”

Harry grins and pulls him into a kiss. Breakfast can wait.

 

* * *

 

 

Pansy ends up knocking at the door, claiming she has cupcakes for Draco, and Harry decides to go down for late breakfast. He answers Pansy’s scowl with a confused look as he walks past her and out of the dorms, but instantly stops thinking about it once he enters the Great Hall and sees Anthony and Angela holding hands at the breakfast table.

He can’t help the smug smirk as he sits down next to Hermione and Ron. Immediately Ron speaks up.

“It’s not thanks to you.”

“Of course it’s thanks to me.”

Ron looks to Anthony for help, but he seems too engrossed in Angela’s eyes to notice what’s going on around him.

“It’s not thanks to you,” he repeats forcefully. “We had a plan, and–”

“It’s kind of thanks to him,” Hermione agrees, and Harry shoots her a bright smile.

“See? The truth is, I’m not only the saviour of the world, I also save relationships.”

“I take it back,” Hermione says. “I take it all back.”

They bicker amicably over breakfast and Harry feels thankful that they don’t bring up his sudden disappearance with Draco or ask him any questions about the development of _that_ relationship. Instead they fill him in with what happened last night, including how Ernie had left the party quickly after they did and bets were taken on whether he had gone to jerk off. Then Dean and Seamus had to go check, but they didn’t come back from the bathroom – it later turned out that Seamus was singing the Irish anthem to soothe Dean as he vomited his guts out.

They finish up eating quickly and clear out the hall, having decided to go to the library to study for the Transfiguration test Ron and Harry needed Hermione’s notes for. They’re in there for hours, poring through books until it feels like Harry’s eyes are going to fall out of his head. It almost has him missing last year, when things were awful all the time but at least things were _happening_ and he wasn’t just stuck in a room while everyone else is outside playing in the snow. But then he watches the serene smile on Hermione’s face as she makes her quills dance wandlessly in an attempt to make Ron stop being grumpy about that question she teased him for getting wrong, and suddenly there’s nothing in the world he would exchange this for.

Ron meets his eyes and is probably about to try to convince him to commiserate with him about how terrible Hermione is and how much he misses the TBBT (Time Before Bathroom Troll), but instead Harry throws him a bright smile, unable and unwilling to hide how content he is at that exact moment. Ron stares for a second before sighing.

“The things getting laid can do to people…”

It’s late afternoon by the time they deem themselves done for the day (Hermione brought sandwiches and they ate them behind the shelves so as not to be seen by Madam Pince), and they walk back to the dorm together. Ron is mid-explanation of a certain Quidditch move the Chudley Cannons used in their last match to a sceptical Harry and an uninterested Hermione when they hear someone coughing heavily.

They turn the corner into a new corridor, and suddenly everything coming to a screeching halt.

“Draco?” Harry breathes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was sort of fast-paced and messy but i hope you liked ! shit's going down in next chapter ._.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 10**

_“Hush, my sweet. These tornadoes are for you.” - A Primer For The Small Weird Loves, Richard Siken_

 

Everything hurts. His face feels like it’s on fire, his ribcage feels like it has caved in on him, and there’s blood on his hands. He thinks it’s dripping onto the floor too, but he can’t be sure because he can’t look because he might fall and it takes all his strength to just stay standing. The only thing he can hear is his own ragged breathing. That is, until:

“Draco?”

And there he is, the boy responsible for every disappointment in his childhood, for the scars on his body, for the constant ache in his chest, for every wound currently tearing him apart. The boy he’s in love with. A drop of blood runs down the side of his face.

“Oh my god, what happened?”

Draco’s eyes slide over Harry to see his sidekicks next to him, looking appropriately shocked at his appearance. He’d laugh if he didn’t have so much blood in his mouth. It’s probably for the best too, because it’d have ended up bitter enough to scorch his throat.

“What happened?” Granger repeats, eyes wide and horrified.

Draco puts out a hand to the wall and takes a ragged a breath. It’s ridiculous how much of an effort it is to put a foot in front of the other, but he just needs to get to the common room. To a bathroom. Maybe to Pansy. Or maybe even Moaning Myrtle, just like last time he was bleeding out because of Harry fucking Potter. He tries to take another step and suddenly his knees buckle, pain ripping through his body, and he lets out a weak cry. It’s only his hand on the wall that keeps him from completely collapsing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Granger take a step forward and he digs his fingers deeper into the wall.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” he spits out, trembling, feverish. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough harm, all of you?”

“I can help! I’m good at healing. Please just let me–”

She makes as if to come closer and he bares his teeth at her, years of resentment and hate hitting him hard.

“Don’t you dare put your filthy hands on me, Mudblood.”

Weasley lets out an outraged exclamation and moves forward like he’s going to barrel into him. Draco somehow manages a smirk, panting harshly. Through the exhaustion and pain, he feels some sort of giddiness at the prospect of being attacked again. Have Weasley fucking finish him. Prove that the Golden Trio is as dirty and terrible and fucked up as everyone else.

Harry stops him. Because of course he does. He grabs the back of Weasley’s shirt and yanks him back, hard.

“Quit it.”

“Did you hear what he just called Hermione? I can’t believe you’ve been with this git, he hasn’t changed at all. He’s really the same arrogant spineless bigot he was all those years, why did we save him again? Maybe he really did deserve all this–”

“I said _quit it_.”

It’s silent and Draco prepares himself, jaw clenched, fingers still digging into the wall, keeping him upright even as his ribs are killing him. He feels like a sodding dog, hackles raised and ready to fight back because it’s cornered and has been hurt just one too many times.

But then–

“Draco,” Harry says softly.

And it’s so direct, so kind, so fucking earnest that it almost undoes him. He slides to the ground.

“Draco,” Harry exhales again, just as low, and rushes to his side.

Draco can feel careful hands tracing his body with a tenderness they’ve never had before, and he chokes on a sob.

“I think his ribs are broken, Hermione we need to get him to the infirmary. Look at him–”

“Harry I’m so tired,” he whispers, one hand clutching his tee shirt.

It hurts, his vision is swimming, and it’s all choking him. The guilt that’s been gnawing at him since this started, going against his parents’ wishes and dishonouring the family pride, and the ever-present resentment in his stomach, against Harry who rejected him when they were children, who always managed to be better in every way, who was so effortlessly good it made Draco hate himself. And of course, the shame that’s made its home in him and just keeps growing day after day, of falling for Harry Potter, of never being strong enough to take a stand, of making himself so vulnerable physically and emotionally for someone who doesn’t even want him back. Everything is just too much, too close to what Draco yearns for, it’s impossible not to let himself dream and forget. It’s just so hard having to remind himself that Harry doesn’t love him back, that this isn’t some fairy tale and even if it was, it’s never the villain that gets the prince. It’s so tiring, all of it.

“Okay, okay hang on,” Harry says. “I’ll get you to the infirmary.”

“I’ll go ahead and warn Ms. Pomfrey.”

“Let’s try and get him up.”

“Be careful.”

Draco grits his teeth at the unwelcome hands at his arms and waist, and can’t help the small whimper as they get him back up onto his feet. Harry’s voice is a low growl in his ear.

“Who did this? Who did this to you?”

Draco struggles to catch his breath enough to respond, licks his lips once. It tastes like blood.

“Why…” he manages, a dry smiling curling at his mouth, “you gonna avenge me?”

“Yes.”

Harry looks angry and fierce and beautiful, his green eyes blazing, and Draco feels his smile turn a little softer.

“Ever the saviour, huh?” He whispers, before adding, quieter. “That’s nice.”

And then he blacks out.

 

* * *

 

 

When he comes to, the pain firing through his body has dulled to an uncomfortable ache, the one he associates with healing bones and stiff muscles. He’s lying on a bed in the infirmary, and winces at the clean, impersonal smell, the memory of his last visit here vivid in his mind. But this time around, Harry wasn’t the perpetrator, and he can’t help that when he opens his eyes, he automatically looks for him in the room. Instead his gaze falls on Mrs. Pomfrey, who looks at him with a pre-occupied frown.

“Does your head feel fine?”

He nods. There are a couple of other beds occupied, but otherwise the room is empty. He itches to ask how long he’s been here, where Harry is, what happened to the ones who attacked him, if his mother has been notified, where Harry is, what will happen to him now, where Harry is.

“You had a twisted ankle, two broken ribs and you took quite a few hits to the face. I took care of most of your injuries, but your ribs are still healing, so be careful in the next week. I’ll keep your here for a couple more hours until your body has gotten enough rest and then you’ll be free to go.”

She sets a glass of water on the bedside table before turning around.

“And Harry?” Draco asks, voice still raspy.

Madam Pomfrey spares him a look.

“He left as soon as they got you here.”

Something cold and heavy settles at the pit of his stomach. Right. Of course. Why would Harry stay by his side anyway?

He watches numbly as Pomfrey walks briskly to someone else’s bedside, but doesn’t have the time to wallow in self-pity longer as the door to the infirmary bursts open. McGonagall strides in, a pinched look on her face, straight towards Draco’s bed. Harry, Granger and Weasley file in behind her, somewhat meek expressions on their faces. McGonagall looks around the infirmary and nods once to herself.

“Perfect. Everyone is here. Someone care to explain?”

Draco swallows hard, eyes flitting between the glacial McGonagall and Harry, who’s resolutely staring at the floor. She raises her eyebrows at the four of them.

“Well?”

“It’s not us who should have to explain,” Harry finally grounds out, anger flashing across his face. “We’re not the ones guilty for this,” he adds, pointing his chin towards Draco.

“Well it seems the ones responsible are currently out of commotion,” McGonagall answers icily, sending a look across the room where the other patients are lying on their bed.

And _oh_. Oh. Because that’s them there, the group of students that cornered him on his way back to the dorms after lunch. None of them seem to have woken up yet.

“And it seems I do have you to thank for that, Potter. So, if you please, will someone explain to me why I shouldn’t immediately expel the lot of you?”

Draco can only watch, somewhat transfixed, as Harry clenches his jaw before quickly explaining how the three of them were on their way back to the dormitory and had found him alone and hurt in the corridor.

“Is this the first time?”

The four of them exchange a quick glance, and Granger speaks up.

“No. We all know that Malfoy has been excluded and shunned by a lot of students, which is to a certain point to be expected, but since the beginning of the year there have also been rumours of him getting physically attacked. Especially since Harry started getting involved.”

“Then why exactly is it the first time I hear about it?”

“It’s never been this bad before,” Draco sighs, looking away.

“There were a lot of bruises that weren’t new,” Pomfrey interrupts, coming back towards them with a disapproving scowl. “It’s definitely not the first time you should have come to the infirmary for it.”

McGonagall’s lips are thinner than ever as she turns back to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Malfoy, explain in detail how and why they attacked you.”

Eyes fixed on the opposite wall. McGonagall is the one who is questioning him, but Harry’s gaze feels so heavy that it’s hard to form words. He swallows.

“I was walking back from the Great Hall, and when they started following me I didn’t pay attention, because they don’t usually corner me during the day. I expected insults. But they must have been more fired up than usual. They heard–they heard rumours that I was sleeping with Harry.” There’s a sharp inhale from who he can only guess is Granger. The room is dead silent, and he shakily continues. “They were uh… upset, and accusing me both of prostituting myself to keep my mother and myself out of prison, as well as corrupting the saviour.”

He can practically feel the tension radiating from Harry at this point, and it’s a good thing that the culprits are already in infirmary beds because who knows what he would have done to them _now_. He takes a deep breath and shrugs his shoulder, nonchalant.

“Which quite frankly is ridiculous, because not only are those two arguments completely in opposition to each other, which shows their lack of basic understanding and undermines their theory of me as the culprit, but if anything, experience-wise, Harry is the one who took advantage of me–”

“Okay, enough of that!” McGonagall quickly says, cutting through Ron’s gurgling noise and Harry’s rising protests. “You mentioned that they usually don’t corner you during the day, do you then mean that you mostly got attacked during the night? On your rounds?”

“There were a few incidents during class here and there but. It didn’t happen so much anymore after a couple of times when Harry arrived and broke up the fights. They must have thought there was a lower chance of getting caught during the night. Until something alarmed them enough to intervene, I imagine,” he scoffs. “They didn’t go easy on either physical force or spells.”

McGonagall is staring at him.

“No Unforgivables.”

“I see. Well, that certainly does not make their behaviour or anyone else’s who participated in these fights against you forgivable. Please write me a list of names of the people who have attacked you in the past, so they can be suitably punished. As for them,” she sends a look at the inanimate figures on the beds. “Well, Pompom, how about you give them something to wake up? We need to have a little chat. And there are a lot of letters to be written.”

She gives Draco a long, considering look.

“Rest well, Malfoy. As for you, Potter, I’ll see you at my office at 8pm for your detention. You’re all free to go now.”

She marches over to the other side of the room while the trio lingers a little, uncomfortable.

“You’re feeling better now, right?” Granger asks, gingerly, and it’s like she’s completely forgotten that Draco insulted her blood status just a few hours ago.

“I’m fine,” he says, and tries to catch Harry’s eyes.

“Uh…okay…Should we go then?” Weasley seems incredibly uncomfortable with the situation, and Draco supposes it must be awkward being stuck between his smouldering best friend, his worried girlfriend and a wounded guy he vaguely despises, not to mention the odd tension because Harry _still refuses_ to look at him.

“Yeah let’s go,” Harry says sharply and turns on his heels, then brusquely turns back, grabs Draco’s hand tight and holds it for a second, nails digging in his skin painfully, before letting go and leaving the infirmary for real.

Draco is left with a gaping Granger and Weasley, his hand still tingling from the abrupt contact. He blinks. The whole afternoon feels a little bit like an out of body experience.

“L-let’s go yeah,” Weasley eventually says, cutting Draco a last incredulous glance before dragging his girlfriend with him and after Harry.

What the hell.

 

* * *

 

 

The second he’s allowed to leave the infirmary, Pansy is all over him. It takes him at least half an hour to reassure her that yes, he’s perfectly fine, and then, once she’s convinced, it takes two more hours for her to run out of threats if he ever keeps something of the like from her again. And then she finds out that he hasn’t been excused from classes the next day and that’s a whole new level of anger.

“How can McGonagall stand for this,” she fumes as she puts yet another muffin on Draco’s plate. “Just last night you had I don’t know how many broken ribs! They let you stay in bed for weeks after that hippogriff hurt your arm, but now that the culprits have families that are influential in the ministry and would complain about their children being blamed for their actions, you’re not getting proper treatment?”

“I hope you realize how incredibly hypocritical that is, Pans, considering my family did at the time. Speaking of which, please don’t remind me of that hippogriff, I still have nightmares.”

“I could care less about being a hypocrite! My best friend was sent to the infirmary by a band of chimpanzees and they’re not even getting expelled!”

“I’m fairly sure at least two are getting expelled, actually.”

“Oh, so they agree that it was bad enough for them to get expelled, yet they’re not letting you rest more? I can’t believe–”

At which point Draco just shoves the entire muffin into her mouth.

The entire day is, to put it simply, strange. Not only his friends but also strangers regularly come up to him in an offer of support and excuses for not having noticed that he was suffering (yes, but I had never noticed your existence before, so that’s fair). The entire day was from one awkward conversation to another one, including a very disturbing interaction with the girl Weasley and Lovegood, which consisted of a hard pat on the shoulder from the girl he spent years traumatizing in school and an alarming “I’m glad to see the iceberg is emerging” from the one who was kept in his family’s dungeons for weeks.

He was glad for Angela and Pansy keeping him sane throughout the classes, and between Pansy’s constant anger and Angela’s teary misplaced guilt, he didn’t have time to concentrate much on Harry’s whereabouts. Or at least, that’s what he thought until it’s two hours after their last class and Harry still hasn’t reappeared in the common room. Granger and Weasley are both there, playing chess and making eyes at each other, but he’s nowhere in sight.

Draco tries to swallow back the unease and takes a look around the room, which, ugh. Speaking of making eyes at each other, he notices with a growing dismay the number of couples in eight year. The golden couple of course, but also Neville and Hannah Abbot, the newly formed Angela and Anthony Goldstein, and Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas (although he’s never been quite sure what going on there, but Finnigan is currently feeding Thomas grapes and wiping the juice from his lips with his thumb, so). It’s upsetting, and Harry still hasn’t talked to him since what happened yesterday, and envy tastes sour.

Disgruntled, he turns back to his Transfigurations homework until it’s finally time for dinner, and Pansy shoes him along, raving about how he’s so skinny of course he couldn’t fight anyone back, and the quality of the food is so poor it doesn’t help the problem. They’re both dragged to the Gryffindor table by Angela who was dragged by Goldstein (“call him Anthony, Draco! He’s my boyfriend now and I want you to get along!”) who seems to have completely integrated the lion club since he started rooming with them.

It’s halfway through dinner that Harry appears, alone, his robe dirty and a little wet. He’s about to ask something of his friends when he suddenly notices Draco, and stares. Draco swallows hard but holds the gaze, and wonders a little desperately when and if he will ever be able to read what is going on behind those steely green eyes.

“Harry, you’re back!” Granger exclaims.

Harry blinks and looks away, still looking somewhat shell-shocked.

“Yes. I ran out of rats.”

A silence.

“Harry, why don’t you sit with us?” Pansy breaks it, uncaringly. “I saved you some treacle tart,” she says and takes the dessert she piled onto Draco’s plate a moment ago.

Harry seems even more shocked. He stares at the extended tart for a moment before murmuring something about cannibals and Luna and slinks off in a hurry.

“I’ve decided not to despise him anymore in thanks for what he did to those bastards and he rejects my peace offering? I see.”

“I think timing was an issue here,” Angela point out sagely, and Pansy sagely shoves the treacle tart in her face.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning at breakfast, the family owl swoops in and drops a letter onto Draco’s lap. He absentmindedly feeds Aristoteles some piece of fruit while staring at his mother’s handwriting. Did McGonagall notify her of the accident? He asked her to keep it quiet as a favour, not wanting to worry her when there is nothing she can do anyway. He gingerly opens the letter, reads the first sentence, and then immediately excuses himself from the table.

He’s safe in bed in his room when he dares open the piece of parchment again.

 

_My dear Draco,_

_I received a letter from Harry Potter. He mentioned to me what happened to you just a couple of days ago. I don’t need to tell you how frightened and disappointed I was that you didn’t let me know that such cruel things were happening to you. While I understand that you did not wish to worry me, know that I always worry about you, and would rather know the truth. I have learned that you are feeling better and that the culprits have been chastised, but please respond to me quickly so I do not spend more nights anxious about your wellbeing._

_That being said, I am glad to hear that you have such a powerful friend by your side. Our past with Mr. Potter may be turbulent to say the least, but he has done a great deal for you, and by that I do not refer to his testament at the trials. I will not comment nor ask about the precise nature of your relationship to him, but he seems to care enough that I am happy for you._

_As for the exact contents of his letter, I thought you might want to see for yourself._

_Take care,_

_Your loving mother._

 

Draco’s throat is tight with unshed tears as he folds out the other piece of paper in the envelop. The handwriting is remarkably less nice, and he chokes out a wet laugh.

 

_Dear Mrs. Black,_

_I hope you’re doing well. I suppose you’re surprised to hear from me. But apart from a few words last summer, I don’t think I ever truly properly thanked you for saving my life. It may just have been an excuse for you to find your son, but it’s not just my own life that you saved. It’s my friends’ and family’s and, well, Draco’s._

_I imagine it must be quite hard being alone in the mansion and thinking up all kinds of scenarios where he is hurt by other students for the mistakes of his parents. Your fears are founded. While most us have taken to him, it isn’t the case for all. I tried to help him whenever I could, but you know him, he’s one stubborn git. Yesterday he was attacked by a group of students and we had to take him to the infirmary. He probably won’t tell you, but I feel you should know. The point is, I took care of the problem. Some of them were expelled, the rest will never dare even look at his direction from now on. I didn’t do this as a way to repay my debt or because of the self-righteousness he so often accuses me of, but because he is worth so much more than he realizes, and if he isn’t willing to fight for himself, then I will have to do it for him._

_You saved my life to protect him, and I’m sure you worry about him every day. I’m just letting you know: you don’t have to anymore, because I’ll protect him now. For you, but mostly for me, and because he deserves it._

_Harry._

 

There are tears staining the parchment and he wipes his eyes furiously. Where is that arsehole? It’s early enough that classes haven’t started and Draco can probably catch him as he leaves the Great Hall. He hurries out of the dorms and all the way back to the ground floor, not giving a single thought to how he must look with his dishevelled hair and teary eyes.

He spots Harry immediately, walking with his friends in the direction of their Charms classroom. Draco strides towards him so purposefully that it’s almost like the crowd is parting for him, and it takes only a moment for Harry to notice him. Immediately the grand courageous saviour of the world ducks and tries to melt away into the crowd.

“You!” Draco exclaims as he catches up to him. “Stop avoiding me, you bastard.”

“Draco, I’m trying to get to class, can we–”

 “You wrote my mother.”

Harry stills.

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. And I suggest you find somewhere more suitable for me to yell at you.”

“Yell at me? But I–” Harry takes a look at the fury in Draco’s eyes and pulls him to the left, down a couple of corridors until they reach somewhere abandoned and quiet.

“But you _what_?” Draco starts immediately. “You thought it was a good idea to go behind my back and inform my mother of things that only concern my relationship with her? What right do you have to tell her what happened?”

Harry goes from 0 to a hundred extremely quickly, like all the tension and anger he had been holding in could finally come out.

“What right do I have? You were bleeding onto the floor! I’m the one who had to find you half dead. I’m the one who had to go run after them and–”

“You didn’t have to!”

“Of course I had to, I wanted to fucking tear them apart!”

He’s panting, harshly. Draco grounds his teeth.

“You had no right to breach my privacy and speak of me to my mother like that. Who allowed you to speak of me as if I were some defenceless child who wouldn’t take a stand for myself? Who said I needed your protection or anyone else’s? Who are you to say that I see myself as unworthy and won’t–”

This time it’s Draco who’s cut off, and he’s cut off by the sudden embrace of Harry’s arms, tight around him as Harry buries his face against his shoulder.

“I know I shouldn’t have said it like that and I’m sorry but you didn’t fight back, Draco,” he whispers.

“I can’t fight back physically Harry, you know why,” Draco sighs. “I need to finish this year if I don’t wanna end up at Azkaban.”

Harry lets out a low sound. He sounds pained, and Draco doesn’t really know what to do because he’s been trying to keep a distance emotionally and to tell himself that it’s just sex, and then sex with Harry was the reason he got all messed up, and then Harry brought him to the infirmary, and then he ignored him fully for two days, and now he’s shaking into this hug. It’s just. It’s a lot.

“Draco. Merlin, Draco I was so scared.”

“Why did you avoid me?” He finds the courage to ask, and it sounds all too vulnerable and hurt but he pushes through. “I…Harry I was scared too, and I _trusted_ you. And you left me.”

Harry makes another of those low sounds, and he’s holding Draco so tight it should hurt, but instead all he can feel is relief.

“I had to find them, I swear Ron had to hold me back from hurting them too much. I can’t be sorry for that, they deserved every bit of it and more. You know I had to make them regret it.”

“But you left me.”

Harry kisses his shoulder, and Draco realizes that the tears have started to spill over again, and he lets out a frustrated noise.

“Why did you do all of that, what’s the point if you sodding left me afterwards? You can’t just make me dependent on you like this and then leave me, it’s too embarrassing and…and it hurts too much!”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry says, and he’s stepped back from Draco to just hold his cheeks in his hands, and he’s wiping away stray tears with his thumbs and Draco notices how his own eyes are red-rimmed. “I had a lot on my mind, I was dumb and I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not fair,” Draco whispers, and Harry kisses a spot just to the side of his mouth, so tender and soft, and he has to fight back the tears from springing again.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I’ll really be there for you now, okay? You can rely on me. You don’t have to because I know you don’t need me, okay? But you can.”

And Draco nods and sniffles and tries not to think about how much he _does_ need him.

 


	11. the shape of your mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO sorry ive been MIA for like 5 years.. it's been crazy with summer & moving to singapore & studying... but here's the next to last chapter :*

**CHAPTER 11**

_“And every wound has the shape of your mouth” - Los versos del capitán, Pablo Neruda_

 

Defence against the Dark Arts is always interesting and it remains Harry’s favourite subject, but it’s tiring, somehow. There’s too much tension in his blood, too many fights and painful memories carved into his bones for him to duel in an appropriate way for a classroom. So he tries to avoid it whenever he can, in favour of teaching, and yet that isn’t ideal either. It reminds him of beautiful evenings spent in the room of requirement with the DA, but inseparable from those memories is the horrors his stupidity caused that year, along with the cold, terrible fact of Colin’s death. He still can’t quite look Dennis in the eyes.

Defence against the Dark Arts is tiring, and that particular Thursday, he’s too emotionally drained to give a single shit when he makes his way down to dinner and sits right next to Draco at the Slytherin table. There’s a rush over the room, the usual hundreds of eyes constantly glued to Harry now round with shock as he lets his head drop onto Draco’s shoulder.

Draco draws in a sharp breath in surprise before huffing and gingerly pressing a hand to Harry’s neck.

“You okay there Mr. Saviour?”

Harry hums noncommittally and keeps his face hidden in Draco’s collarbones. He’s been extra affectionate, even clingy, these days. He can’t get out of his head the pain in Draco’s eyes and voice when he said that Harry had abandoned him, and since then he has completely abandoned the idea of reigning in his protectiveness and feelings for the Slytherin. And so far, Draco hasn’t complained. It’s not new for them to be touchy, but back then it never happened in public, and during the night Draco always ended up turning away and leaving Harry’s hands cold. These days…not so much. So he stays half draped over Draco’s body, letting the sound of Draco’s little jabs about his laziness and endless complaints about school wash over him in a strangely comforting way. Pansy is snickering at him but Draco is feeding him bites of chicken between every other mocking insult, so he’s quite content.

Later that evening, Harry is in the middle of a game of chess with Ron when Draco approaches them. Harry’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he can’t help being a bit nervous. It’s always been somewhat awkward between Ron and Draco, but it’s become more tense after Draco called Hermione a Mudblood, and although Ron – bless his heart – helped and supported Harry in the events that followed, the two tend to skirt around each other. But Draco doesn’t have a care as he glances over his shoulder to take a look at where Harry places his next piece. He snorts.

“Yet another thing you’re horrendous at,” he drawls, and Harry can’t help but feel a little insulted, because he’s been training hard with Ron over the years and has become much better.

“What would you have played instead then?” Ron demands, and the derisive tone makes Harry feel better. Ha! Take that! Ron is the best friend in the world.

“Moved the knight to D6,” Draco says immediately, smoothly.

Harry frowns in confusion but Ron’s eyebrows rise before he narrows his eyes.

“Harry, get out of that chair. Malfoy, you’re on.”

And Harry can only watch in a mix of astonishment and betrayal as Draco sits on his chair, sending the two of them a smug smirk. Two hours later, Ron has an arm around Draco’s shoulders and is explaining in detail how and why he managed to win in the end, while Draco is rolling his eyes, saying that Harry spoiled the beginning of the game and that they need a rematch. Hermione and Harry can only exchange incredulous glances and giggle around their tea mugs. And that is how Ron and Draco get on civil terms.

 

* * *

 

 

Christmas break is upon them before they can blink. It’s a week before the end of classes and they are busy with midterms. Parties are put on hold, instead become large study sessions – with the occasional board game tournament to ease the tension. And despite the stress that the exam period brings about, Harry feels…content. Things have been better between him and Draco, a lot of the unhealthy push-and-pull tension is gone and they haven’t had a fight since the matter of the letter. They find moments in between exams and studying, both for sex but also and mostly just to relax in each other’s presence. Nights in the common room have turned into full-on cuddle sessions, Draco wrapped around him on the armchair, Harry’s warming charms and soft touches pulling him to sleep.

It’s safe to say that Harry has never been so in love. He feels more and more helpless with each soft breath that Draco exhales against his neck, with each smug smile when he wins a chess game, with each rant he makes whenever he finds anything subpar, with each kiss and moan and light-hearted insult. And it’s scary, but Harry has never been one to back away from danger. So he lets himself sink head first into the delicious feeling of Draco’s touch and presence by him, to the point where he forgets to wonder if Draco feels the same, where he forgets to guard his heart against the inevitable break. Because there’s that time Draco kissed every single scar on Harry’s body and then whispered how dumb he was, voice choked and something indescribable in his eyes. There’s that afternoon he was studying Charms while Draco attempted to braid his hair the way Angela had taught him for almost an hour, until he gave up with a loud exclamation, complaining about the “despicable good looking” hair until Harry pulled him onto his lap, and Draco stayed there, silent and soft, until he was done with the homework. There is that early morning, when the light filtered so lightly through the windows of the common room and Draco bid him good morning with a bashful smile, and Harry barely bit back the ‘I love you’ resonating in his chest.  

It’s something of a wonder that after everything that has happened to him in his life, Harry still hasn’t learned that there’s an end to every good thing. And maybe there’s a certain beauty in it, in how he gives his all and refuses to look at the inevitable crash, but it doesn’t stop the pain when it does happen. And it happens like this.

They’re finished with the exams. It’s the last day before they leave for winter break and he’s brought Draco to the Forbidden Forest, explaining where he spends his days whenever things got too much, and where he hid that time after Draco got hurt.

“I like it here,” he says, “and I like her.”

Draco’s eyes widen when Hannibal and a few of her siblings come into view, used by now to Harry’s appearances and seeking affection and extra food. Hannibal eagerly presses her head against Harry’s palm, and he grins.

“Bringing back some memories?”

“I can’t help thinking about that darned hippogriff,” Draco admits. “I hate winged creatures now.”

“Buckbeak never even hurt you badly,” Harry rolls his eyes, “and you completely deserved it. He’s in France now, living the life with Hagrid.”

Draco hums, still staring at Hannibal anxiously.

“Will it attack me if I call it ugly?”

“No, but I might.”

“You would never. But good, because as disturbing-looking as hippogriffs are, this creature is truly horrendous, and I reserve the right to say it.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Harry whispers and feeds her a piece of chicken. “He’s just jealous of our love.”

“Why do you like it so much anyway?” Draco sniffs, and Harry stills for a second.

Oh well, since they’re going down memory-lane anyway.

“She flew me to the Minister in fifth year. You know…well, you probably heard of it. It was a trap, but I thought they were holding Sirius hostage. He ended up dying because he came to my help,” Harry smiles bitterly. “But she’s a good girl.”

He claps her neck and looks up to see a dark expression on Draco’s face.

“Stop blaming yourself,” he says adamantly. “If anything, I’m the one who should be feeling bad for what my family did to you. For what I did. But yes, I guess that does make her a good girl.” He extends his hand slowly and lets Hannibal sniff it. “Still terribly ugly though.”

There’s a small silence as Draco looks around, taking in the forest, the thestrals, Harry.

“Harry, I want to go to the Room of Hidden Things.”

A beat of shocked silence.

“What?”

“I–” Draco breathes deeply, subtly reaches for Harry’s hand. “I think it would be good for me. Some type of closure.”

It’s not like Harry doesn’t get it, but it feels so much. The memories from lessons and disappointment in 5thyear, waiting outside the room for hours in 6thyear, and the fire, god the fire. He holds Draco’s hand tight.

“Are you sure?”

At Draco’s nod, he throws the rest of the meat at the thestrals and they hurry back to the castle. He makes his way to the room of requirement so easily, it’s practically muscle memory despite not having entered that corridor since he came back to Hogwarts. Both of them hesitate in front of where the door usually is, but Harry swallows hard and paces in front of the wall. ‘Show me what’s left of this room,’ he repeats in his head. ‘Show us what is left and give Draco closure.’

Draco draws in a sharp breath and Harry comes to a standstill. There it is, the door, looking like nothing has changed. Harry steals a look at Draco, who looks pale, teeth worrying his bottom lip. He can only imagine what he’s thinking of, between the hours spent working on the cabinet, sneaking the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, Crabbe’s death, escaping the flames on Harry’s broom…the guilt, the pain, the raw terror.

“Alright. Okay. I can do this,” Draco says, and opens the door.

It’s empty. Harry takes a careful step inside. Everything is gone. As much as the door was intact, inside there’s nothing left. The walls are charred black, but otherwise there’s no indication that there was ever fire. That there was ever anything, really. Draco emits a small sound, looking over the vast room like he’s looking for remnants of Crabbe. It makes bile rise in the back of Harry’s throat. He’s about to grab Draco and just turn around and make them leave, when his eyes catch something. At one side of the room, pushed against the wall is a tall rectangle. He approaches slowly, realization dawning as he recognizes the intricate frame, the gold covered in ash.

“But Dumbledore didn’t know about this room…” Harry breathes. “Did he ask Snape to hide it instead?”

He turns the sooty mirror around and puts it up against the wall, and hears Draco walking towards him, curiosity winning over his apprehension.

“What is that?” Draco’s voice is hushed.

“The Mirror of Erised.”

Harry looks at it, expecting to see his family, but instead he finds himself staring back at his reflection, his gaze intrigued and skin sooty from the ash that covered the mirror, and Draco next to him, still looking nervous. “But I guess it doesn’t work anymore.”

He doesn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Disappointed that he doesn’t get to see his family? Or relieved maybe. That it’s just him and Draco. _It does not do well do dwell on dreams._

 “What is this?” Draco suddenly says, his voice tense. “Why is my father out of prison? What–”

Draco’s lips part as he takes a step forward, a strange look on his face. Harry frowns, turning back to the mirror, but it’s just them there. And _oh_.

How things have changed, that he went from wanting a family, to just wanting Draco. Draco, who is still looking absolutely transfixed by the vision in the mirror. The vision of his father. And then again. _Oh_. Smaller, and less surprised, but much more painful. He almost wants to laugh. Of course he isn’t Draco’s deepest desire. He never thought he could be, but somehow it still hurts. Harry knows that Draco doesn’t love him back, but in the past days…he let himself forget, somehow.

He needs to leave, suddenly. Grabbing Draco’s wrist, he tugs him away from the mirror, closing his ears to his loud complaints, and gets them out of the room. Draco seems a little out of breath, and Harry has to force himself not to look at the way his throat moves, at the way the silk of his shirt rests against the delicate collarbones. _It does not well to dwell on dreams._ And maybe that’s why Dumbledore didn’t hide the mirror himself. Because sometimes dreams are just too hard to resist.

“We need to go and pack,” he says.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s surprisingly easy to avoid Draco. For all that they’ve clung to each other in the past two weeks, all it takes is for Harry to slide his gaze past him a little coldly, and Draco doesn’t follow him into the train. Doesn’t sit in the same compartment and doesn’t come ask for a goodbye at the station. And yes, Harry feels like a complete arsehole, but the recent reminder of his one-sided feelings is a kick to the teeth and he needs some time. Everyone is too busy saying their teary goodbyes to notice, and soon enough Ginny is ushering him, Ron and Hermione away from the train and by the car where the Weasleys are waiting. Mrs. Weasley falls upon them with warm hugs and fretting. Harry lets the sound of her voice wash over him, and it feels like home. He shakes Mr. Weasley’s hand and they make fond small talk until Mrs. Weasley stops discussing the When his turn comes, Mrs. Weasley holds him at half-arm’s length, gives his ripped jeans and faded Led Zep shirt a thorough look and sighs.

“I know you miss your godfather but really, you don’t have to start _dressing_ like him. You’ve always had his half-starved look down, this is very much unnecessary. Don’t tell me you’ve been digging in his old closets.”

Harry, who didn’t start wearing Sirius’ clothes but _did_ start listening to the old Muggle bands on the posters in his bedroom over the summer, rolls his eyes and gives her cheek a kiss. Molly seems to melt at that, though she gives a last huff and a muttered ‘you still look so bloody thin’. He exchanges a _look_ with Ginny, and for one second feels nostalgic about the way they spent the summer two years ago, making fun of her overprotective tendencies and trying to find ways to see each other. But then that train of thought leads him to thinking about his former feelings for Ginny and then right back to Draco, where his thoughts always seem to end up. Why did he stop pushing Harry away? Does he still see him just as someone he has sex with? Does he have feelings for him at all? What is he thinking? Is he terribly hurt by Harry’s dismissal today? Where is he spending the holidays? Will he be okay? Will­– Harry groans out loud, forcing himself to cut it out. There’s nothing to do, and if Draco doesn’t want him back and is unknowingly breaking his heart, the least Harry can do is to not obsess over it.

The evening is strange. It feels good to see all the Weasleys again but despite the good humour and happiness brought along by the upcoming Christmas, Fred’s absence is glaringly obvious and the way everyone’s eyes skirt over his empty chair during dinner makes Harry’s chest feel hollow. He almost wishes he had gone back to Grimmauld Place instead, but if there’s anything he’s learned in these past few months around Draco, it’s that avoiding problems never works out. So he attempts to enjoy the way Mrs. Weasley hums Celestina Warbeck under her breath, Hermione, Percy and Mr. Weasley’s are discussion of politics and how Ron is slowly turning red at George’s teasing. It feels somehow empty, like his jokes were supposed to be picked up and continued by someone else, and sometimes it’s like both brothers are waiting for something that never comes. But they power through. Harry has another serving of baked potatoes, answers Mrs. Weasley’s questions about their exams and lets Ginny rest her head against his shoulder when she turns sleepy. If anything, it helps ward off any thoughts about a certain snippy arrogant blond.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry slithers on the ground, the tiles cool but his body colder. He can smell the blood. Can taste it in the air, on his tongue, and he’s hungry. _Come_ , says the voice, so promising, and he’s filled with savage glee. Finally the victim is in view, slumped and weak, and Harry coils around the chair, tense with anticipation. _Attack_ , the voice says and Harry springs. His fangs find purchase and blood fills his mouth as the man screams, Harry’s venom spreading in his veins like fire. It’s salty and delicious and – and Harry feels warmth filling him. There’s a high-pitched laugh as the man’s painful scream is cut short, his lifeless body falling back against the chair. The movement is reflected in a mirror, catching Harry’s eye who turns to look right into the Mirror of Erised. In it is the dead man’s face is visible and it’s Fred. It’s Fred and suddenly Harry is gagging on the blood filling his mouth. Because in the mirror, he’s not a snake. He’s himself, and there’s blood around his mouth and his eyes are glowing red. He can feel himself trembling. Fred is dead on the chair, and it’s his fault. There’s another high-pitched giggle, and footsteps coming from behind him. Draco smiles at Harry in the mirror.

“Did you kill him?”

 

Harry wakes up with a start and he’s crying, painful sobs raking his body and he’s scared, he’s so scared, and he wishes he was back in the common room with Draco’s soft warmth around him, but even the thought of Draco makes his mouth taste like blood. Bile rises in his throat and he practically runs to the toilet. By the time he’s done throwing up last night’s dinner and makes his way back to the bedroom, Ron is awake and waiting for him. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls him into a strong hug. Harry sighs, feeling the nightmare slowly ease its claws on him in his best friend’s warm embrace. He’s not guilty for Fred’s death. Draco isn’t encouraging him to kill anyone. Voldemort is gone.

“You okay?” Ron finally asks, voice gruff with sleep and worry.

Harry just nods and moves back towards his bed. But after an hour, it becomes painfully obvious that he can’t find sleep. Apparently, neither can Ron, because he shifts and looks at him.

“You didn’t say goodbye to Draco before leaving.”

“Since when do you call him Draco?”

Even in the dark of the room, Harry can see the incredulous expression on Ron’s face.

“Since we spent an entire afternoon playing chess and studying for the Transfigurations midterm together. Remember? He was in your lap half the time.”

Of course Harry remembers. He swallows past the lump in his throat and even in the darkness hiding his face, he feels too exposed. But this is Ron, this is the person with whom he’s shared all the most important moments of his life for years. This is the person he would trust his life with in heartbeat. So he breathes in and out a couple of times. Decides that he deserves the truth.

“I love him, you know?”

Ron huffs, feigning annoyance.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” When Harry doesn’t laugh, he continues, more careful. “You know I’m joking, right? I mean, sure, I wasn’t overjoyed in the beginning, especially since I always kind of thought you’d end up back with Ginny but. But he’s not as bad as I thought. Or he became better. Or something. You’re happy when you’re with him, and that’s what matters to me. Merlin knows you deserve to be happy.”

The silence stretches.

“Harry please say something this got way too sappy. Save this conversation.”

“He doesn’t love me back.”

“That’s not saving the conversation at all,” Ron exclaims in exasperation.

Then the words register, and he quiets down. Because really, what is there to say? Their breathing is deep, somewhat painful. Eventually there’s a rustle as Ron moves around on his bed, looking for something. It takes him a few moments before he finds it and throws it blindly at Harry. It lands on the mattress, and Harry stares for a second. It’s the Deluminator. Harry gingerly picks it up, thinking about how it captures light. How it brought Ron back to them again. How it has always symbolized hope.

“You’ll find your way,” is all Ron says.

When Harry falls back asleep, his heart doesn’t feel as heavy.

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days aren’t as difficult. They’re busy preparing for the arrival of Charlie, Bill and his family. Andromeda has also promised to pop in and say hi with Teddy. Mrs. Weasley makes them clean the entire house and it feels a little like that summer two years ago, without the looming threat of a bloodthirsty maniac after them. So it’s nice. Busy enough that they don’t have time to think about all their missing pieces, which Harry guesses is sort of also the point.

He spends any free time surrounded by his three best friends, and it’s nice to catch up with Ginny, who he barely sees now that they live in different dorms. She fills him in on what’s going on in the Gryffindor tower, and exchange anecdotes about the first years, as Harry knows some of them from when he helps out in Defence against the Dark Arts.

“You don’t even wanna know the amount of questions I have to answer about you,” she rolls her eyes. “Now that everyone knows we’ve broken up, I’m the one they all flock to for advice on how to seduce you.”

Harry grimaces.

“I’d think that was over. Actually I don’t get approached as much as I did before the war.”

“Trust me, you’re very much a hot commodity,” she rolls her eyes. “Now they’re just extra intimidated because you’re an actual honest to god hero.”

“If I am, so are all of you guys.”

“Yeah yeah.” She catches his sharp look and grins. “I know. You’re just the main face of it, okay? Some of them even saw you slay down Voldemort so. They’ll be reading all those articles about your preferences in gossip magazines.”

She pauses for a second.

“How much do you think that kind of thing sells? Like how much money would I get for leaking some information about you?”

Harry basically just jumps on her, and she laughs as she wards off his attempts to? Hit her? Tickle her?

“I mean it would definitely be enough to pay for the new– hey stop! – broom! Won’t you support my dreams, Harry? Stop oh my god!”

Their job to clean the windows is absolutely forgotten as they playfight, and soon enough Ginny grabs a pillow to hit back and it turns into a pillow fight, turning the room upside down and destroying their own earlier hard work.

They’re finally forced to end it when Hermione pops in and gasps in horror.

“Bill and Fleur will be here in half and hour! Mrs. Weasley is going to kill you if she sees this!”

The smiles drop from their faces in a heartbeat and they hurry to try to make the room presentable again.

“Oh Merlin, we’re doomed,” Ginny complains. “Screw the whole Hogwarts Battle, nothing will make mum more murderous than having to show Fleur to her room and finding out it’s dirty. She would never live it down. And we wouldn’t _live_ at all.”

“You’re so dramatic,” he mutters as he attempts to make the bed presentable again.

“Um. You’re saying this to me? When you’ve been spending all your time with Draco? How can you even have standards for what is dramatic anymore?” 

The mention of Draco brings a burst of pain in his chest and Harry briefly wonders when everyone just started calling him by his first name. But he’s already burdened Ron with his angst, and it’s complicated enough to make this Christmas a happy affair with the loss of Fred without him sighing after his one-sided love to everyone, so he doesn’t say anything. Just hums noncommittally. But of course, it’s Ginny, and she can see through his bullshit just like Hermione, and unlike Hermione, she never misses a chance to call him out on it. So she narrows her eyes at him.

“Speaking of Draco, what did you get him for Christmas?”

Harry blinks.

“Uh…nothing.”

“You didn’t get him a present?” She sounds somewhat horrified.

“No…”

“But Christmas is tomorrow…Have you even been talking to him this entire week?” She takes a look at his face and shakes her head. “I can’t believe this.”

“Ginny, I don’t see how this is a big deal, Draco and I–” there he has to take a breath, swallow down the pain and bitterness of the words, “we’re not anything important. It’s just hooking up.”

Ginny sends him a _look_.

“It’s as much ‘just hooking up’ as you and I were a relationship last summer.”

“So pretty close then.”

“Harry.”

She’s staring at him like she _knows_ , and he bites back his frustration. Because suddenly he remembers what happened last time he took a couple of steps back to lick his wounds, the way Draco was lost and hurt and the heart-breaking “you _left_ me” that’s been haunting Harry ever since. He left Draco just when he needed him the most, and isn’t exactly what he’s doing again now? Draco is alone dealing with seeing his family again and dealing with the ghosts of the past, and what does Harry do? Refuse to acknowledge his existence just because he’s upset that his feelings aren’t reciprocated?

And just like that, nothing matters anymore except for the fact that Draco deserves to know that he hasn’t been abandoned. The fact that Harry promised he would be there for Draco always, and he _lied,_ because the break is almost over and he wasn’t there for the boy who must have been too proud, too hurt, too caught up in nightmarish flashbacks to reach out.

“I need to go take care of something,” Harry breathes out rushedly.

Ginny just laughs.


	12. i need you

**CHAPTER 12**

_“I wonder how I got by this week I only touched you once_

_Lately I can’t find the beat, I used to feel the rush_

_And now I need you to feel a vibe I need you to see the point_

_I need you to feel alive I need you to fill a void” – Void, the Neighbourhood_

 

Christmas eve is miserable. The Manor is in a state of disarray, the reparations for the war having cost so much that entire aisles of the house have been abandoned due to lack of possible housekeeping. It’s cold and sad and empty, and Draco feels like throwing up every time he catches a glimpse of the cellars by the kitchen where Muggleborns were held captive, or the living room where they were so often tortured. His mother is ecstatic to see him, and she does the best that she can to bring some holiday cheer, but it’s clear that the months have been tough on her. His father’s absence is felt, and Draco doesn’t know whether he is sad or happy for it. For the better part of the break, he stays holed up in his room, hiding from the echo of the Dark Lord’s laugh at every corner.

At least this year the desolate, cold corridors of the Manor don’t hold the threat of a giant snake slithering at every corner, haunting Draco’s sleep. No, instead his dreams are haunted by Harry Potter. By the fire in his eyes and the soft turn of his mouth when he sleeps and the warmth of his hands and the haste with which he escaped Draco to return home. As if he couldn’t wait to get away. As if he suddenly remembered that Christmas is a family holiday and Draco’s family hasn’t ceased making his suffer. And well, he’s not wrong, Draco can’t help but think. He would usually laugh but there’s nothing humorous about it and while that usually would only feed his taste for bitter irony, the cold of this winter has sapped his strength. He’s become too weak for Harry in the soft, sweet weeks before the break. And now he’s alone and he can feel it like little blades of ice under his skin – the absence. His mother has tried asking him about Harry, but Draco’s stubborn, at times desperate avoidance of the subject eventually quieted her down. His loneliness doesn’t quiet down. Longing has carved a hole underneath his ribcage and it _aches_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Yeah, come on in,” the guard says gruffly, and Draco swallows hard before following his mother further into Azkaban.

The Manor felt sinister and chilling, but it’s nothing compared to this. The corridor echoes with the sound of shackles dragging along stone, and muttered groans from prisoners. The Dementors may be gone, but it doesn’t feel like it. Cold seeps straight into his bones and he has to grit his teeth in order not to outright shudder at the taste of despair in the air. There are shadows moving at the edges of his vision, and he doesn’t even want to know what is hiding away in the corners of the prison, feeding on the prisoners’ misery and rotting flesh. A scream rises from the depths of the prison, and Draco barely bites back his yelp, his grip tightening on his mother’s arm. She sends him a tight-lipped smile, her face pale.

Finally the guard halts in front of a door. He swiftly moves his wand in a complicated motion, and there’s a loud unlocking sound. He opens the door, and they move into a room at his suit. The smell of urine and dust grabs at Draco’s throat, and he almost gags before taking a look at what is in front of him. They are in a dim room, separated from the actual cell by what looks like cell bars but is probably an impenetrable wall of spells.

There’s a man hunched in the corner of the room, but he almost runs towards them when he hears their entrance.

“Cissy!” He exclaims, his voice raw and weak.

Draco feels bile rise in his throat. Gone is the man he knew his entire life. In front of him is but a shell of the man Lucius Malfoy used to be, his face thin and pale, his long dirty hair falling in clumps down his shoulders, his grey eyes wide and empty.

“Cissy!” He repeats. “Draco! You’re both here.”

“It’s Christmas morning dear,” his mother says. “I wrote you that we would come visit.”

“Ah. Yes,” he says, something vague in his eyes. “Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she smiles, and nudges Draco.

“Merry Christmas, Father,” he somehow manages, and his father’s eyes snap to his.

“Draco,” he says, “back to Hogwarts, yes?” His speech seems to clear, and he almost resembles his old self as he continues, gaining height and straightening his shoulders. “Your mother told me you were doing good in class. You’d better show them, show them that you’re proud of being Slytherin despite everyone’s hate. You know better than them. They may have won the war, but they still don’t know the first thing about family and respect. Treating us like that! Us! The Malfoys? How dare they... I hope you’re showing them, Draco, showing them what it means to be a Malfoy, a Slytherin. Dumbledore and all his Mudbloods thinking they’ll one day reach our level. Hah! You better show them.”

And Draco watches with a form of diffuse horror as he repeats himself again, eyes shining with an almost manic glee. The kind of desperate happiness Draco saw in them when he was following Voldemort’s orders, before everything turned dark and scary and cold. But this time it doesn’t scare him, nor inspire him. Draco stares at the man in front of him, and finds nothing of the grandeur his father used to possess. He remembers how he grew up, longing and feeding off his father’s affection and pride in him, and going to bed every night starving. Now, he just sees a poor old man clinging to his pride and outdated beliefs because he can’t face a world in which he isn’t superior. He feels a little sick.

“Lucius please calm down,” his mother is saying, stealing worried looks at the horror on her son’s face and attempting to stop her husband’s mad ramblings.

And Draco? He just wants to be taken away from here. Away from the man who simultaneously raised him and destroyed him, and into the arms of the one he loves. The one who’s gone because of course, why would he stay by the side of someone as messed up as Draco? And he thinks back wryly to the vision in the Mirror. Of him and Harry standing hand in hand, with Draco’s parents by them. His father happy and healthy and proud of him. Of Harry. What a ridiculous hope.

Draco snorts and, snapping back to reality, squeezes his mother’s arm.

“I want to leave.”

“Of course you do,” Lucius almost growls. “Never had the guts to stand up for yourself. You’re probably whining around and making friends with our enemies while I rot away in Azkaban for trying to give us all a better life. You’re out there rubbing our name in the mud, in the same muddy blood as Muggleborns, instead of bringing the Malfoys glory again.”

Draco hears his mother’s sharp inhale, and it feels like he’s been hit, but. But that’s enough. He’s had enough.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” he spits, cold and furious. “Look where your great search for glory has brought you. You’re rotting away in Azkaban, yes, and for what? The world is moving on while you destroyed everything we had, our home and this family and whatever modicum of pride there was in being from a great wizarding lineage. Pah! We’re all just thin-blooded and rolling on the riches we made from enslaving others. You think mum is happy? You think she’s proud of you? Death and misery and nightmares, that’s all your hate could bring us. There is more good in being accepting and more glory to be found by making friends.” He grins, and continues in a derisive tone. “I’m sorry, do I sound like a Hufflepuff? You who are so proud of being a snake, and yet you don’t know that allies made through more than just bribery and sick ideas of power are stronger than anything your greed could buy us. Now you’re going to melt away into the dark just like your idiotic allies and psychopathic leader did, while I go on to live in the world and build a career and found a family that won’t be ruled by blood obsessive ideals. I may be a coward, but you’re just a fool. And to think I looked up to you.”

He turns on his heels and looks at the guard, standing straight with a sneer on his face and possibly looking more like a Malfoy than he ever did before.

“I would like to leave now please.”

He’s trembling by the time they are back on the mainland, standing up to his father having taken more courage and energy than he’d like to admit. And he just. Feels so alone. His mother said nothing after his outburst, simply bid her husband goodbye and held on to Draco’s arm on the way back. She is clearly shell-shocked that it had to come to this, and while she seems to be supporting Draco, it’s not what he needs. It’s not enough. Green eyes come to mind and he pushes the thought away firmly, furious at himself for being so weak and dependent, even now.

The walk to the Apparition point is tense with silence, but it’s broken the second they appear in front of the gates to the Manor.

“Why are the gates open?” Narcissa asks, alarmed.

Both of them hurry past the gates, and Draco has to suck in a breath at the sight of the park. Where it was desolate and overgrown just this morning, the grass is now cut and gleaming, branches cut and flowers looking healthy. Draco exchanges an incredulous glance with his mother as they come across an ice sculpture looking suspiciously like the ones decorating Hogwarts. The alley to the Manor is filled in with gravel, with small lamps on each side lighting the way at regular intervals, but still there is no one in sight.

That is, until they actually reach the Manor. The place is bustling, spells flying left and right and small voices crying from each side of the castle. Lights are set in, tapestries are being cleaned, dust and debris disappearing–

 “Alright, _what_ is going on?” Draco finally asks, at his wits’ end.

Just then, there’s a loud crack, and Golly appears. The house elf immediately starts bowing and apologizing for the mess.

“They arrived and insisted to be let in! Golly tried to stop them, but they knew the Black password! Golly had to let them in! They are changing everything!”

“The black password?”

Both Draco and his mother look in complete puzzlement as house elves hurry about. There’s a distinct ruckus coming from the closed aisle of the Manor, and Golly whimpers. Draco sees it coming when Golly raises his arm to hit himself and is just about to tell him to stop, when there’s another sudden crack and an elf grabs onto Golly’s arm, stopping the self-inflicted punishment.

“Stop being stupid! Master Potter would be upset if you hit yourself!” The newly arrived elf exclaims before turning to Draco and his mother.

“Master Potter?” Draco repeats, at the exact same time as his mother exclaims:

“ _Kreacher_?”

The house elf turns to them and bows deeply.

“Mistress and Master Black!”

Draco can’t help but stare at his monstrosity of a face, wrinkled and blotchy and scrunched up in pure, unadulterated happiness. He can’t seem to relate it with the elf he remembers from his youth, lingering in dark corridors with eyes full of contempt and sick admiration for his creepy grand aunt. Not to mention that last he heard, this is the house elf that betrayed Harry in 5thyear and caused the death of his godfather.

His mother must share his shock because she’s frowning in complete bewilderment, her mouth opening and closing without a single sound coming out. Finally Draco blurts out:

“What’s a black password?”

“The Black password,” his mother corrects softly, still looking around wide-eyed as house elves clean up the grand rooms and set up Christmas decorations. “It’s been in the family for generations. It guarantees safe passage into the House. But it’s usually used for emergencies, not for…whatever this is…”

“A Christmas present!” Kreacher chirps. “Master Potter has a message for Master Black! He says: ‘Sorry I was so late.’ Now I have to go make sure everything is going well in the … wing! You must excuse the elves, they are mostly used to making meals! Please excuse Kreacher too!” He bows deeply once again and disappears with a loud crack.

Narcissa blinks.

“Are those…are those the Hogwarts elves? Since when does Kreacher do anything with such enthusiasm…I believed he hated Potter…”

But Draco isn’t even thinking that far, his heart beating wildly, painfully beneath his ribcage. ‘Sorry I was so late.’ He looks at the stars in his mother’s eyes as she watches the Manor be repaired and rendered back to its original splendour, and thinks: you’re forgiven. Harry, you are always forgiven.

Draco recalls the utter radiance on Kreacher’s face, on the happy chatter of the Hogwarts elves as they do something so far from their usual job just because Harry asked them to. And he can’t help but wonder what it is about Harry that inspires such blind loyalty and adoration from house elves – but then he thinks about it for a second, and well. Yes. Makes sense. And it’s not even like it’s only house elves he inspires that in.

Slowly, very slowly, the empty spaces between his ribs that have been agonizing him since he left Hogwarts warm up. He watches the elves clean up and healing his ancestral house, and it feels like they are cleaning and healing a wound. He drags his mother further inside, sits her down on a sofa that he’s never seen before: it’s the rich green of Slytherin, but soft and warm in a way that neither his house nor the common room ever felt. It feels like lying with his head in Pansy’s lap out in the sun on the Hogwarts grounds, like exchanging barbed insults with Blaise as Crabbe and Goyle cheer him on, like petting Millicent’s cat who hates everyone but has always had a soft spot for him. It feels like home. He breathes out shallowly, because today has been. A lot. He still feels shaky from standing up to his father for the first time in his life, the fury, contempt, fear and acrid loneliness no longer waging war in his chest but still staining his limbs. He’s exhausted.

“Cup of tea, Mistress Black? Master?” Kreacher pops into existence and presents them with steaming mugs of what smells like the old-fashioned tea Narcissa used to serve to the wives of politicians.

Draco melts a little further into the sofa.

 

* * *

 

 

“You didn’t send me a single owl,” Pansy scowls, “do you have any idea how worried I was for you? Do we really have to keep doing this? I thought you knew you could come to me.”

They’re sitting in an empty classroom, Pansy having dragged him away from the crowd in the Great Hall and neither of them quite in the mood for the joy explosions happening in the common rooms. Despite the pressing need to see Harry, to ask for explanations for his absence and thank him for the Manor and maybe, hopefully, stealing kisses from his mouth. But he’s still too afraid to find out that nothing has changed and Harry doesn’t want him anymore. That the Manor was out of the goodness of his heart, out of his needs to fix what he thinks is unfair. It’s a testament to how much things have changed that the thought doesn’t enrage Draco, but it is still painful, so here Draco is. Hiding in a classroom with Pansy and being berated for dropping off her radar as he does every time he’s hurt.

He kisses her cheek.

“I’m sorry Pans. You know how I am, but I shouldn’t have cut you off like this,” and he tells her everything that happened in detail.

By the end, she’s looking at him with the most affronted look he’s ever seen on her face.

“What are you doing here?”

He blinks.

“Draco, can you please explain to me what in _Merlin’s name_ you’re doing here instead of running to Potter and professing your love and endless gratitude or possibly just drop to your knees for him?”

“Always so crass,” he says, somewhat breathless.

“Go!”

He goes. He hurries over to the common room, knowing that Harry would have escaped the crowd of admirers in the Hall. And sure enough, there he is, surrounded by the rest of his Golden Trio. Draco hears Angela say his name but he doesn’t turn to see her because just then, Harry raises his head and locks eyes with him. Immediately he pats Ron’s shoulder and makes his way to Draco, cutting the other friend groups. He stands still in front of him, and Draco can’t help but catalogue his face, the sharp jaw and sooty hair curling around his temples, the strong brows frowned over his eyes that shine with? Determination? Or is it resignation? Draco licks his lips. Harry’s eyes follow the movement. He swallows hard, and Harry takes a step forward, stare fixed on his mouth. Draco can’t help the small, cut-off sound at the back of his throat, and Harry exhales harshly, shaking his head and grabbing Draco’s arm.

“Let’s go, we need to talk.”

He takes them a bit further down the corridor, until they can’t hear the rambunctious voices of the other 8thyears re-uniting, until it’s just them and the hundreds of unspoken words between them. They stand in silence for a few tense instants before Harry sighs.

“Draco I’m so sorry,” he says, and this isn’t how it’s supposed to go at all.

It’s Draco who’s supposed to thank him, to ask him how he could possibly repay him for all the beauty and wonder and care that he’s received when he never deserved any of it. But instead Harry’s stance is nervous, his eyes dropped. He’s twirling an object around his hands that vaguely resembles a lighter.

“I shouldn’t have avoided you on the last day and…I also left you alone while you were with your family. I knew this would be horrible for you, and I just…didn’t do anything. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your job to worry about me,” Draco snipes, regrets it instantly.

“I said you could rely on me and I left when you needed me. Again.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because…” He shifts his weight. “It’s complicated. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you doing this? What do you want me to say?” Draco exclaims, at a loss and so goddamned confused. “I came here to say thank you for making the Manor into a home because I’ve been lost and afraid and horrified and I feel like a part of me is whole again. And now you’re saying that you’re sorry and I don’t even know what you’re sorry _for_ , because you don’t owe me anything, of course you left that’s. That’s fine. It’s not like I can expect anything more but now there’s a reason you left me alone and you won’t tell me and I just. Can you for once _please_ stop confusing me? It hurts and I don’t know what to–”

“I’m in love with you.”

Draco’s breath is punched out of his chest.

“What?” He croaks out.

“And I know you don’t feel the same, but I felt like you deserve to know.”

“No, I, what?” He grabs hold of Harry’s sleeve, desperate for anything to tether him to reality. “What?”

“You deserve to know that you’re amazing and funny and cute and just _lovely_ , and yeah, I love you,” he rasps, almost rambling, and Draco feels like he’s Apparated into an alternative reality because what? What? “And you’re so cute and irritable in the morning and so soft when you’re tired and when you’re being dramatic I kind of just wanna kiss you­–”

“I’m always dramatic,” he whispers.

“Yeah, I kind of always wanna kiss you.” He looks defeated. _Harry Potter_ looks defeated. “And I didn’t even fully realize how fucking much I love you until I looked into the Mirror of Erised and it was just the two of us and of course you didn’t see the same thing and that’s fine, I don’t want anything from you but I just thought. You should know.”

“You don’t want anything from me?”

Harry stops. Stares.

“That’s what you get from all of this?”

“How can you tell me all of this, how can you say you…you… _that_ , and then say you don’t want anything from me? I…I don’t get Harry please, I…”

He’s close to panicking, tears are rising to his eyes and he can’t get the right words out. Can’t understand that this really just happened and what does Harry mean and this can’t be true.

“Shhh sweetheart calm down,” Harry says.

Suddenly there are warm, strong arms around him, holding him tight, and. There’s so real. This is _real_. And damn it, he’s making Harry comfort him when he just bared his heart while Draco can’t make himself _say it_ , and really Harry is the one who should need comfort now, but he’s still putting others, putting _Draco_ , first and– he exhales sharply.

“Harry in the mirror. I also saw you. It was us and my family proud of me for being with you. What are even you talking about, I don’t love you back? What are you on? I love you, of course I do. I mean, _obviously_ ,” he finally exhales, exasperated and a little aggressive, “how could you not know, I was so obvious and you’re _you_ , how could I not be in love with you. How could you even doubt it, you absolute git, it’s really incredible that you’ve been able to get so far in your life considering how completely oblivious you–”

Harry cuts him off with a kiss, and Draco whimpers and melts.

 

* * *

 

 

“I thought that you would never love me back,” Draco whispers into his shoulder hours later, when they’re both more calm and nestled in Harry’s bed.

“I love you,” Harry says immediately, and it’s still a shock to Draco system, electric in his veins until it turns into pure warmth, settling somewhere around his chest.

But he shakes his head.

“No, you. You don’t understand. Harry, you care so much about humanity, but I never thought you would care about me as a _person_. I could never expect that. I mean you’re Harry Potter. I’m not. I’m not saying you’re Harry Potter and you saved the world. I’m saying you’re Harry Potter, the boy who had what it took to save the world. Who had the bravery and compassion and strength and ability to make friends and just…” he knots his hands in Harry’s tee shirt. “You’re an amazing person and. Put it how you want, but I’m just the failed son of a self-important racist. I have my occasional funny moments and my hair is quite pretty but come on,” he smiles wryly, “how could I ever compare?”

“Draco… sweetheart, that’s not what I see. That’s never what I’ve seen. I’m not…I’m not anymore special than you are. You’re so incredibly smart and talented and enduring…you’ve dealt with emotional and physical abuse for so long without ever losing your pride and grit and sense of humour.” He sighs. “I’m not good with words, baby, but you deserve to be loved, and I love you. Do you believe me?”

Draco stares at him for a while, and finally swallows down the rise of emotion in his throat.

“I believe you. I just don’t understand you.”

Harry’s mouth curls into a smile.

“Then I’ll spend my time making you understand.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m so tired,” Angela complains, head falling against Draco’s shoulder, who is himself slumped against Harry’s knees with his head in his lap.

Harry’s hands play idly with his hair as he continues his conversation about Quidditch with Ron and Anthony. Pansy scoffs mockingly from Draco’s other side.

“It’s only the second day of term.”

What was surely going to be a Draco-worthy spiel on the lack of endurance of Hufflepuffs is interrupted when Luna enters the common room. The door is spelled to only open for 8thyears but honestly, Draco has stopped being surprised by everything Luna-related. She sends a happy smile to them.

“Harry! I’m so happy you managed to melt everything! And you’ve been careful about catching Dappleblimps, that’s good.”

If Harry is confused by that, he doesn’t let anything on, instead grinning back in a way that makes Draco’s pulse jump.

“Thank you Luna. You weren’t at the rounds yesterday, did you go see the Spectrals?”

“Oh no, you’re taking quite good care of them! You should take Hannibal with you when you leave Hogwarts, she’ll miss you otherwise. I was picking moonflowers for Ginny.”

Just then, Seamus thunders down the stairs from the dorms, tears streaking his face, and dramatically falls onto the sofa without a single care for the people already sitting there. Draco barely avoids being kicked in the eye by his foot.

“Seamus, are you okay?” Hermione asks in complete alarm.

“I’m so happy,” he whimpers, still sobbing, and they exchange confused glances.

“Dean must have finally asked him out,” Luna says, her voice lilting.

“What? Haven’t they been dating the entire time? Why would he get emotional?” Draco wonders.

He receives a half condescending, half comforting pat on the head from Harry, and sends him a withering stare. Harry just smiles, and it’s the softest smile he’s ever seen gracing Harry’s face. Cheeks flaming, he drops his eyes to the ground.  

“I can’t believe Seamus’ plan really worked,” Ron remarks, sounding impressed.

“Newsflash: I’ve been bisexual the entire goddamn time,” Dean exclaims as he joins them and drags Seamus off the sofa. “Okay stop crying, you big baby. Harry, did you see the news in Witch Weekly?”

“No, I do _not_ read that shit and I’m a little alarmed that you do.”

“‘Alarmed’ oh my god, you already sound like Draco,” Anthony snickers.

“Seamus told me,” and yes, that does explain it. “Someone leaked the news about you dating Draco.”

Draco heart drops through his stomach and down to the ground. It feels like everything has stopped for a second. Then Harry chuckles.

“Man, already? I’ll just ignore it I guess.” He pauses, sends a look to Draco’s pale face. “Unless you want me to announce it? I could do a dramatic “hey I’m in love with the most lovely man in the world” announcement. Press conference? Maybe a private interview and Ginny gets the profits for the special.”

“Hey why not me?” Ron protests, which turns into an argument between all of Harry’s friends, but Draco isn’t listening.

He’s hearing the rush of blood in his ears, feeling the thump of his heart in his chest beating “he isn’t ashamed of you, he loves you, everything will be okay”. And the warmth of Harry’s eyes on him, like a promise. And Harry has always kept his promises.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again sorry for the wait, hope this was worth it!   
> thank you so much to everyone who's followed this story and especially left comments, i love you all !


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